THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


TALES 


OF  A 


TIME  AND   PLACE 


BY 


GRACE    KING 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN   SQUARE 

1892 


Copyright,  1892,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

All  rights  reserved. 


Ibomagc  to 


MR.  GEORGE  C.  PREOT 

OF  NEW  ORLEANS 

MY  CRITICAL  FRIEND  AND 
FRIENDLY  CRITIC 


"& 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2010  witii  funding  from 

University  of  Nortii  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/talesoftimeplaceOOking 


CONTENTS 


PACE 

BAYOU    L'OMBRE 3 

BONNE   MAMAN 63 

MADRILENE;   OR,  THE  FESTIVAL  OF  THE  DEAD  119 
THE  CHRISTMAS  STORY  OF  A  LITTLE  CHURCH  183 


BAYOU    L'OMBRE. 


BAYOU   L'OMBRE. 

AN    INCIDENT   OF   THE    WAR. 

[F  course  they  knew  all  about  war 
—  soldiers,  flags,  music,  generals 
on  horseback  brandishing  swords, 
knights  in  armor  escalading  walls, 
cannons  booming  through  clouds  of 
smoke.  They  were  familiarized  with  it  picto- 
rially  and  by  narrative  long  before  the  alpha- 
bet made  its  appearance  in  the  nursery  with 
rudimentary  accounts  of  the  world  they  were 
born  into,  the  simple  juvenile  world  of  primary 
sensations  and  colors.  Their  great  men,  and 
great  women,  too,  were  all  fighters ;  the  great 
events  of  their  histories,  battles  ;  the  great  places 
of  their  geography,  where  they  v/ere  fought  (and 
generally  the  more  bloody  the  battle,  the  more 
glorious  the  place) ;  while  their  little  chronol- 
ogy— the  pink-covered  one— stepped  briskly  over 
the  centuries  solely  on  the  names  of  kings  and 
sanguinary  saliencies.  Sunday  added  the  sab- 
batical supplement  to  week  -  day  lessons,  sym- 
bolizing  religion,   concreting    sin,   incorporating 


4  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

evil,  for  their  better  comprehension,  putting  Jeho- 
vah himself  in  armor,  to  please  their  childish  fac- 
ulties—  the  omnipotent  Intervener  of  the  Old 
Testament,  for  whom  they  waved  banners,  sang 
hymns,  and  by  the  brevet  title,  "  little  soldiers  of 
the  cross,"  felt  committed  as  by  baptism  to  an 
attitude  of  expectant  hostility.  Mademoiselle 
Couper,  their  governess,  eased  the  cross-stitching 
in  their  samplers  during  the  evenings,  after  sup- 
per, with  traditions  of  "  le  grand  Napoleon,"  in 
whose  army  her  grandfather  was  a  terrible  and 
distinguished  officer,  le  Capitaine  Cesaire  Paul 
Picquet  de  Montignac ;  and  although  Mademoi- 
selle Couper  was  most  unlovable  and  exacting  at 
times,  and  very  homely,  such  were  their  powers  of 
sympathetic  enthusiasm  even  then  that  they  often 
went  to  bed  envious  of  the  possessor  or  so  glo- 
rious an  ancestor,  and  dreamed  fairy  tales  of  him 
whose  gray  hair,  enshrined  in  a  brooch,  reposed 
comfortably  under  the  folds  of  mademoiselle's  fat 
chin — the  hair  that  Napoleon  had  looked  upon  ! 

When  a  war  broke  out  in  their  own  country 
they  could  hardly  credit  their  good-fortune ;  that 
is,  Christine  and  Rdgina,  for  Lolotte  was  still  a 
baby.  A  wonderful  panorama  was  suddenly  un- 
folded before  them.  It  was  their  first  intimation 
of  the  identity  of  the  world  they  lived  in  with  the 
world  they  learned  about,  their  first  perception  of 
the  existence  of  an  entirely  novel  sentiment  in 
their  hearts— patriotism,  the  amour  sacri  de  la  pa- 


Mrl) 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  5 

trie,  over  which  they  had  seen  mademoiselle  shed 
tears  as  copiously  as  her  grandfather  had  blood. 
It  made  them  and  all  their  little  companions  feel 
very  proud,  this  war ;  but  it  gave  them  a  heavy 
sense  of  responsibility,  turning  their  youtliful  pre- 
cocity incontinently  away  from  books,  slates,  and 
pianos  towards  the  martial  considerations  that 
befitted  the  hour.  State  rights,  Federal  limits, 
monitors  and  fortresses,  proclamations,  Presi- 
dents, recognitions,  and  declarations,  they  ac- 
quired them  all  with  facility,  taxing,  as  in  other 
lessons,  their  tongue  to  repeat  the  unintelligible 
on  trust  for  future  intelligence.  As  their  father 
fired  his  huge  after-dinner  bombs,  so  they  shot 
their  diminutive  ammunition ;  as  he  lighted 
brands  in  the  great  conflagration,  they  lighted 
tapers  ;  and  the  two  contending  Presidents  them- 
selves did  not  get  on  their  knees  with  more  fer- 
vor before  their  colossal  sphinxes  than  these  lit- 
tle girls  did  before  their  doll-baby  presentment 
of  "  Country."  It  was  very  hard  to  realize  at 
times  that  histories  and  story-books  and  poetry 
would  indeed  be  written  about  them ;  that  little 
flags  would  mark  battles  all  over  the  map  of  their 
country — the  country  Mademoiselle  Couper  de- 
spised as  so  hopelessly,  warlessly  insignificant ; 
that  men  would  do  great  things  and  women  say 
them,  teachers  and  copy-books  reiterate  them, 
and  children  learn  them,  just  as  they  did  of  the 
Greeks  and   Romans,  the  English  and  French, 


6  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

The  great  advantage  was  having  God  on  their 
side,  as  the  children  of  Israel  had ;  the  next  best 
thing  was  having  the  finest  country,  the  most 
noble  men,  and  the  bravest  soldiers.  The  only- 
fear  -was  that  the  enemy  would  be  beaten  too 
easily,  and  the  war  cease  too  soon  to  be  glorious  ; 
for,  characteristic  of  their  sex,  they  demanded 
nothing  less  than  that  their  war  should  be  the 
longest,  bloodiest,  and  most  glorious  of  all  wars 
ever  heard  of,  in  comparison  with  which  even 
"  le  grand  Napoleon  "  and  his  Capitaine  Picquet 
would  be  effaced  from  memory.  For  this  were 
exercised  their  first  attempts  at  extempore  prayer. 
God,  the  dispenser  of  inexhaustible  supplies  of 
munitions  of  war,  became  quite  a  different  pow- 
er, a  nearer  and  dearer  personality,  than  "  Our 
Father,"  the  giver  of  simple  daily  bread,  and  He 
did  not  lack  reminding  of  the  existence  of  the 
young  Confederacy,  nor  of  the  hearsay  exigencies 
they  gathered  from  the  dinner-table  talk. 

Titine  was  about  thirteen,  Gina  twelve,  and  Lo- 
lotte  barely  eight  years  old,  when  this,  to  them, 
happy  break  in  their  lives  occurred.  It  was  eas- 
ily comprehensible  to  them  that  their  city  should 
be  captured,  and  that  to  escape  that  grim  ultima- 
tum of  Mademoiselle  Couper,  '■'■  passees  au  fil  de 
repee,"  they  should  be  bundled  up  very  hurriedly 
one  night,  carried  out  of  their  home,  and  journey 
in  troublesome  roundabout  ways  to  the  planta- 
tion on  Bayou  I'Ombre. 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  7 

That  was  all  four  years  ago.  School  and  play 
and  city  life,  dolls  and  fetes  and  Santa  Claus,  had 
become  the  property  of  memory.  Peace  for  them 
hovered  in  that  obscurity  which  had  once  envel- 
oped war,  while '"61," '"62," '"63,"  "'64,"filledim- 
measurable  spaces  in  their  short  past.  Four  times 
had  Christine  and  Regina  changed  the  date  in 
their  diaries — the  last  token  of  remembrance  from 
Mademoiselle  Couper  —  altering  the  numerals 
with  naive  solemnity,  as  if  under  the  direction  of 
the  Almighty  himself,  closing  with  conventional 
ceremony  the  record  of  the  lived -out  twelve 
months,  opening  with  appropriate  aspirations  the 
year  to  come.  The  laboriously  careful  chronicle 
that  followed  was  not,  however,  of  the  growth  of 
their  bodies  advancing  by  inches,  nor  the  expan- 
sion of  their  minds,  nor  of  the  vague  forms  that 
began  to  people  the  shadow-land  of  their  sixteen 
and  seventeen  year  old  hearts.  Their  own  bud- 
ding and  leafing  and  growing  was  as  unnoted  as 
that  of  the  trees  and  weeds  about  them.  The 
progress  of  the  war,  the  growth  of  their  hatred 
of  the  enemy,  the  expansion  of  the  amour  sacre 
germ — these  were  the  confidences  that  filled  the 
neatly -stitched  foolscap  volumes.  If  on  com- 
parison one  sister  was  found  to  have  been  hap- 
pier in  the  rendition  of  the  common  sentiment, 
the  coveted  fervor  and  eloquence  were  plagia- 
rized or  imitated  the  next  day  by  the  other,  a  gen- 
erous emulation  thus  keeping  the  original  flame 


8  BAVOU   L  OMBRE. 

not  only  alight,  but  burning,  while  from  assimilat- 
ing each  other's  sentiments  the  two  girls  grew 
with  identity  of  purpose  into  identity  of  mind,  and 
effaced  the  slight  difference  of  age  between  them. 

Little  Lolotte  responded  as  well  as  she  could 
to  the  enthusiastic  exactions  of  her  sisters.  She 
gave  her  rag  dolls  patriotic  names,  obediently 
hated  and  loved  as  they  required,  and  learned  to 
recite  all  the  war  songs  procurable,  even  to  the 
teeming  quantities  of  the  stirring  "  Men  of  the 
South,  our  foes  are  up  !"  But  as  long  as  the 
squirrels  gambolled  on  the  fences,  the  blackbirds 
flocked  in  the  fields,  and  the  ditches  filled  with 
fish ;  as  long  as  the  seasons  imported  such  con- 
stant variety  of  attractions  —  persimmons,  dew- 
berries, blackberries,  acorns,  wild  plums,  grapes, 
and  muscadines ;  as  long  as  the  cows  had  calves, 
the  dogs  puppies,  the  hogs  pigs,  and  the  quarters 
new  babies  to  be  named ;  as  long  as  the  exas- 
perating negro  children  needed  daily  subjuga- 
tion, regulation,  and  discipline — the  day's  meas- 
ure was  too  well  filled  and  the  night's  slumber 
too  short  to  admit  of  her  carrying  on  a  very  vig- 
orous warfare  for  a  country  so  far  away  from 
Bayou  I'Ombre — a  country  whose  grievances  she 
could  not  understand. 

But— there  were  no  soldiers,  flags,  music,  pa- 
rades, battles,  or  sieges.  This  war  was  altogether 
distinct  from  the  wars  contained  in  books  or  in 
Mademoiselle  Couper's  memory.     There  was  an 


AN    INCIDENT   OF   THE   WAR.  g 

absence  of  the  simplest  requirements  of  war. 
They  kept  awaiting  the  familiar  events  for  which 
they  had  been  prepared  ;  but  after  four  years  the 
only  shots  fired  on  Bayou  I'Ombre  were  at  game 
in  the  forest,  the  only  blood  shed  was  from  the 
tottering  herds  of  Texas  beeves  driven  across  the 
swamps  to  them,  barely  escaping  by  timely  butch- 
ery the  starvation  they  came  to  relieve,  and  the 
only  heroism  they  had  been  called  upon  to  dis- 
play was  still  going  to  bed  in  the  dark.  Indeed, 
were  it  not  that  they  knew  there  was  a  war  they 
might  have  supposed  that  some  malignant  fairy 
had  transported  them  from  a  state  of  wealth  and 
luxury  to  the  condition  of  those  miserable  Ha- 
thorns,  the  pariahs  of  their  childhood,  who  lived 
just  around  the  corner  from  them  in  the  city, 
with  whom  they  had  never  been  allowed  to  asso- 
ciate. If  they  had  not  so  industriously  fostered  the 
proper  feelings  in  their  hearts,  they  might  almost 
have  forgotten  it,  or,  like  Lolotte,  been  diverted 
from  it  by  the  generous  overtures  of  nature  all 
around  them.  But  they  kept  on  reminding  each 
other  that  it  was  not  the  degrading  want  of  money, 
as  in  the  Hathorns'  case,  that  forced  them  to  live 
on  salt  meat,  corn -bread,  and  sassafras  tea,  to 
dress  like  the  negro  women  in  the  quarters,  that 
deprived  them  of  education  and  society,  and  im- 
prisoned them  in  a  swamp-encircled  plantation, 
the  prey  of  chills  and  fever ;  but  it  was  for  love 
of  country,  and  being  little  women  now,  they  loved 


lO  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

their  country  more,  the  more  they  suffered  for  her. 
Disillusion  might  have  supervened  to  disappoint- 
ment and  bitterness  have  quenched  hope,  experi- 
ence might  at  last  have  sharpened  their  vision,  but 
for  the  imagination,  that  ethereal  parasite  which 
fattens  on  the  stagnant  forces  of  youth  and  gar- 
nishes with  tropical  luxuriance  the  abnormal  source 
of  its  nourishment.  Soaring  aloft,  above  the  pro- 
saic actualities  of  the  present,  beyond  the  rebut- 
ting evidence  of  earth,  was  a  fanciful  stage  where 
the  drama  of  war  such  as  they  craved  was  un- 
folded ;  where  neither  homespun,  starvation,  over- 
flows, nor  illness  were  allowed  to  enter;  where 
the  heroes  and  heroines  they  loved  acted  roles  in 
all  the  conventional  glitter  of  costume  and  con- 
duct, amid  the  dazzling  pomps  and  circumstances 
immortalized  in  history  and  romance.  Their 
hearts  would  bound  and  leap  after  these  phan- 
tasms, like  babes  in  nurses'  arms  after  the  moon, 
and  would  almost  burst  with  longing,  their  ripe 
little  hearts,  Pandora-boxes  packed  with  passions 
and  pleasures  for  a  lifetime,  ready  to  spring  open 
at  a  touch !  On  moonlit  nights  in  summer,  or 
under  the  low  gray  clouds  of  winter  days,  in  the 
monotony  of  nothingness  about  them,  the  yearn- 
ing in  their  breasts  was  like  that  of  hunting  dogs 
howling  for  the  unseen  game.  Sometimes  a  ru- 
mor of  a  battle  "out  in  the  Confederacy"  would 
find  its  way  across  the  swamps  to  them,  and 
months  afterwards  a  newspaper  would  be  thrown 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  ii 

to  them  from  a  passing  skiff,  some  old,  useless, 
tattered,  disreputable,  journalistic  tramp,  garru- 
lous with  mendacities ;  but  it  was  all  true  to 
them,  if  to  no  one  else  in  the  world  —  the  fac- 
titious triumphs,  the  lurid  glories,  the  pyrotech- 
nicai  promises,  prophecies,  calculations,  and  Vic- 
tory with  the  laurel  wreath  always  in  the  future, 
never  out  of  sight  for  an  instant.  They  would 
con  the  fraudulent  evangel,  entranced ;  their 
eyes  would  sparkle,  the  blood  color  their  cheeks, 
their  voices  vibrate,  and  a  strange  strength  ex- 
cite and  nerve  their  bodies.  Then  would  follow 
wakeful  nights  and  restless  days  ;  Black  Marga- 
rets, Jeanne  d'Arcs,  Maids  of  Saragossa,  Kath- 
erine  Douglases,  Charlotte  Cordays,  would  haunt 
them  like  the  goblins  of  a  delirium  ;  then  their 
prayers  would  become  imperious  demands  upon 
Heaven,  their  diaries  would  almost  break  into 
spontaneous  combustion  from  the  incendiary  ma- 
terial enmagazined  in  their  pages,  and  the  South 
would  have  conquered  the  world  then  and  there 
could  their  hands  but  have  pointed  the  guns  and 
their  hearts  have  recruited  the  armies.  They 
would  with  mingled  pride  and  envy  read  all  the 
names,  barely  decipherable  in  the  travel-stained 
record,  from  the  President  and  Generals  in  big 
print  to  the  diminishing  insignificance  of  small- 
est-type privates;  and  they  would  shed  tears, 
when  the  reaction  would  come  a  few  days  later, 
at  the  thought  that  in  the  whole  area  of  typog- 


12  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

raphy,  from  the  officers  gaining  immortality  to 
the  privates  losing  lives,  there  was  not  one  name 
belonging  to  them  ;  and  they  would  ask  why,  of 
all  the  families  in  the  South,  precisely  their  father 
and  mother  should  have  no  relations,  why,  of  all 
the  women  in  the  South,  they  should  be  brotherless. 

There  was  Beau,  a  too  notorious  guerilla  cap- 
tain ;  but  what  glory  was  to  be  won  by  raiding 
towns,  wrecking  trains,  plundering  transports, 
capturing  couriers,  disobeying  orders,  defying 
regulations  ?  He  was  almost  as  obnoxious  to  his 
own  as  to  the  enemy's  flag. 

Besides,  Beau  at  most  was  only  a  kind  of  a 
cousin,  the  son  of  a  deceased  step-sister  of  their 
father's  ;  the  most  they  could  expect  from  him  was 
to  keep  his  undisciplined  crew  of  "  'Cadians,"  Ind- 
ians, and  swampers  away  from  Bayou  I'Ombre. 

"  Ah,  if  we  were  only  men  !"  But  no  !  They 
who  could  grip  daggers  and  shed  blood,  they  who 
teemed  with  all  the  possibilities  of  romance  or 
poetry,  they  were  selected  for  a  passive,  paltry 
contest  against  their  own  necessities  ;  the  endur- 
ance that  would  have  laughed  a  siege  to  scorn 
ebbing  away  in  a  never-ceasing  wrangle  with 
fever  and  ague — willow-bark  tea  at  odds  with  a 
malarious  swamp ! 

'  It  was  now  early  summer  ;  the  foliage  of  spring 
was  lusty  and  strong,  fast  outgrowing  tender- 
ness and  delicacy  of  shade,  with  hints  of  matu- 
rity already  swelling  the  shape.     The  day  was 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  13 

cloudless  and  warm,  the  dinner -hour  was  long 
past,  and  supper  still  far  off.  There  were  no 
appetizing  varieties  of  menu  to  make  meals  ob- 
jects of  pleasant  anticipation ;  on  the  contrary, 
they  had  become  mournful  effigies  of  a  convivial 
institution  of  which  they  served  at  most  only  to 
recall  the  hours,  monotonously  measuring  otf  the 
recurring  days  which  passed  like  unlettered  mile- 
posts  in  a  desert,  with  no  information  to  give  ex- 
cept that  of  transition.  To-day  the  meal-times 
were  so  far  apart  as  to  make  one  believe  that  the 
sun  had  given  up  all  forward  motion,  and  intended 
prolonging  the  present  into  eternity.  The  planta- 
tion was  quiet  and  still ;  not  the  dewy  hush  of  early 
dawn  trembling  before  the  rising  sun,  nor  the  mys- 
terious muteness  of  midnight,  nor  yet  the  lethar- 
gic dulness  of  summer  when  the  vertical  sun-rays 
pin  sense  and  motion  to  the  earth.  It  was  the 
motionless,  voiceless  state  of  unnatural  quietude, 
the  oppressive  consciousness  of  abstracted  ac- 
tivity, which  characterized  those  days  when  the 
whole  force  of  Bayou  I'Ombre  went  off  into  the 
swamps  to-  cut  timber.  Days  that  began  shortly 
after  one  midnight  and  lasted  to  the  other  ;  rare 
days,  when  neither  horn  nor  bell  was  heard  for 
summons ;  when  not  a  skiff,  flat-boat,  nor  pirogue 
was  left  at  the  "  gunnels  ;"*  when  old  Uncle  John 
alone   remained  to  represent  both   master  and 

*  "Gunnels,"  floating  wharf. 


14  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

men  in  the  cares  and  resiDonsibilities  devolving 
upon  his  sex.  The  bayou  hved  and  moved  as 
usual,  carrying  its  deceptive  depths  of  brackish 
water  unceasingly  onward  through  the  shadow 
and  sunshine,  rippling  over  the  opposite  low,  soft 
banks,  which  seemed  slowly  sinking  out  of  sight 
under  the  weight  of  the  huge  cypress-trees  grow- 
ing upon  it.  The  long  stretch  of  unfilled  fields 
back  of  the  house,  feebly  kept  in  symmetrical 
proportion  by  crumbling  fences,  bared  their  rigid, 
seedless  furrows  in  despairing  barrenness  to  the 
sun,  except  in  corner  spots  where  a  rank  growth 
of  weeds  had  inaugurated  a  reclamation  in  favor 
of  barbarism.  The  sugar-house,  superannuated 
and  decrepit  from  unwholesome  idleness,  tottered 
against  its  own  massive,  smokeless  chimney ;  the 
surrounding  sheds,  stables,  and  smithy  looked  for- 
saken and  neglected ;  the  old  blind  mule  peace- 
fully slept  in  the  shade  of  his  once  flagellated 
course  under  the  corn-mill.  Afar  off  against  the 
woods  the  huge  wheel  of  the  draining-machine 
rose  from  the  underbrush  in  the  big  ditch.  The 
patient  buzzards,  roosting  on  the  branches  of  the 
gaunt,  blasted  gum-tree  by  the  bayou,  would  raise 
their  heads  from  time  to  time  to  question  the  loi- 
tering sun,  or,  slowly  flapping  their  heavy  wings, 
circle  up  into  the  blue  sky,  to  fall  again  in  lazy 
spirals  to  their  watch-tower,  or  they  would  take 
short  flights  by  twos  and  threes  over  the  moribund 
plantation  to  see  if  dissolution  had  not  yet  set 


AN    INCIDENT   OF    THE    WAR.  15 

in,  and  then  all  would  settle  themselves  agam  to 
brood  and  sleep  and  dream,  and  wait  in  tranquil 
certainty  the  striking  of  their  banqueting"  hour. 

The  three  girls  were  in  the  open  hall-way  of 
the  plantation  house,  Christine  reading,  Regina 
knitting,  both  listlessly  occupied.  Like  every- 
thing else,  they  were  passively  quiet,  and,  like 
everything  else,  their  appearance  advertised  an 
unwholesome  lack  of  vitality,  an  insidious  ana- 
morphosis from  an  unexplained  dearth  or  con- 
straint. Their  meagre  maturity  and  scant  devel- 
opment clashed  abnormally  with  the  surrounding 
prodigality  of  insensible  nature.  Though  tall, 
they  were  thin  ;  they  were  fair,  but  sallow ;  their 
gentle  deep  eyes  were  reproachful  and  deprived- 
looking.  If  their  secluded  hearts  ventured  even 
in  thought  towards  the  plumings  natural  to  their 
age,  their  coarse,  homely,  ill-fitting  garments 
anathematized  any  coquettish  effort  or  naive  ex- 
pression of  a  desire  to  find  favor.  Like  the 
fields,  they  seemed  hesitating  on  the  backward 
path  from  cultivation.  Lolotte  stood  before  the 
cherry-wood  armoire*  that  held  the  hunting  and 
fishing  tackle,  the  wholesome  receptacle  of  useful 
odds  and  ends.  Not  old  enough  to  have  come 
into  the  war  with  preconceptions,  Lolotte  had  no 
reconciliations  or  compromises  to  effect  between 
the  ideal  and  the  real,  no  compensations  to  solicit 
from  an  obliging  imagination,  which  so  far  never 
rose  beyond  the  possibilities  of  perch,  blackbirds, 


r6  BAYOU  l'ombre. 

and  turtle  eggs.  The  first  of  these  occupied  her 
thoughts  at  the  present  moment.  She  had  made 
a  tryst  with  the  negro  children  at  the  draining- 
machine  this  afternoon.  If  she  could,  unper- 
ceived,  abstract  enough  tackle  from  the  armoire  for 
the  crowd,  and  if  they  could  slip  away  from  the 
quarters,  and  she  evade  the  surveillance  of  Uncle 
John,  there  would  be  a  diminished  number  of 
"brim"  and  "goggle-eye"  in  the  ditch  out  yon- 
der, and  such  a  notable  addition  to  the  planta- 
tion supper  to-night  as  would  crown  the  exploit  a 
success,  and  establish  for  herself  a  reputation 
above  all  annoying  recollections  of  recent  mis- 
haps and  failures.  As  she  tied  the  hooks  on  to 
the  lines  she  saw  herself  surrounded  by  the  ac- 
claiming infantile  populace,  pulling  the  struggling 
perch  up  one  after  the  other ;  she  saw  them 
strung  on  palmetto  thongs,  long  strings  of  them ; 
she  walked  home  at  the  head  of  her  procession ; 
heard  Peggy's  exclamations  of  surprise,  smelt 
them  frying,  and  finally  was  sitting  at  the  table,  a 
plate  of  bones  before  her,  the  radiant  hostess  of 
an  imperial  feast. 

"  Listen  !"  Like  wood-ducks  from  under  the 
water,  the  three  heads  rose  simultaneously  above 
their  abstractions.  "Rowlock!  Rowlock!"  The 
eyes  might  become  dull,  the  tongue  inert,  and  the 
heart  languid  on  Bayou  I'Ombre,  but  the  ears 
were  ever  assiduous,  ever  on  duty.  Quivering 
and  nervous,  they  listened  even  through  sleep  for 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  17 

that  one  blessed  echo  of  travel,  the  signal  from 
another  and  a  distant  world.  Faint,  shadowy, 
delusive,  the  whispering  forerunner  of  on-coming 
news,  it  overrode  the  rippling  of  the  current,  the 
hooting  of  the  owls,  the  barking  of  dogs,  the  splash 
of  the  gar-fish,  the  grunting  of  the  alligator,  the 
croaking  of  frogs,  penetrating  all  turmoil,  silenc- 
ing all  other  sounds.  "Rowlock!  Rowlock!" 
Slow,  deliberate,  hard,  and  strenuous,  coming  up- 
stream ;  easy,  soft,  and  musical,  gliding  down. 
"  Rowlock  !  Rowlock  !"  Every  stroke  a  very 
universe  of  hope,  every  oar  frothing  a  sea  of  ex- 
pectation !  Was  it  the  bayou  or  the  secret  stream 
of  their  longing  that  suggested  the  sound  to- 
day? "Rowlock!  Rowlock!"  The  smouldering 
glances  brightened  in  their  eyes,  they  hollowed 
their  hands  behind  their  ears  and  held  their  breath 
for  greater  surety.  "  Rowlock !  Rowlock  !"  In 
clear,  distinct  reiteration.  It  resolved  the  mo- 
ment of  doubt. 

"  Can  it  be  papa  coming  back  ?" 

"  No  ;  it's  against  stream." 

"It  must  be  swampers." 

"  Or  hunters,  perhaps." 

"Or  Indians  from  the  mound." 

"  Indians  in  a  skiff  ?" 

"  Well,  they  sometimes  come  in  a  skiff." 

The  contingencies  were  soon  exhausted,  a  cut- 
off leading  travellers  far  around  Bayou  I'Ombre, 
whose  snaggy,  rafted,  convoluted  course  was  by 


I8  BAYOU    l'oMBRE. 

universal  avoidance  relegated  to  an  isolation  al- 
most insulting.  The  girls,  listening,  not  to  lose  a 
single  vibration,  quit  their  places  and  advanced  to 
the  edge  of  the  gallery,  then  out  under  the  trees, 
then  to  the  levee,  then  to  the  "gunnels,"  where  they 
stretched  their  long,  thin,  white  necks  out  of  their 
blue  and  brown  check  gowns,  and  shaded  their 
eyes  and  gazed  down-stream  for  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  skiff — their  patience  which  had  lasted  months 
fretting  now  over  the  delay  of  a  few  moments. 

"At  last  we  shall  get  some  news  again." 

"  If  they  only  leave  a  newspaper  !" 

"  Or  a  letter,"  said  Lolotte. 

"  A  letter  !     From  whom  ?" 

"  Ah,  that's  it !" 

"What  a  pity  papa  isn't  here  !" 

"  Lolotte,  don't  shake  the  gunnels  so  ;  you  are 
wetting  our  feet." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  the  last  one  passed  ?" 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Lolotte — "  I  can  tell  you 
exactly  :  it  was  the  day  Lou  Ann  fell  in  the  bayou 
and  nearly  got  drowned.'' 

"You  mean  when  you  both  fell  in." 

"  I  didn't  fall  in  at  all ;  I  held  on  to  the  pirogue." 

The  weeping-willow  on  the  point  below  veiled 
the  view ;  stretching  straight  out  from  the  bank,  it 
dropped  its  shock  of  long,  green,  pliant  branches 
into  the  water,  titillating  and  dimpling  the  surface. 
The  rising  bayou  bore  a  freight  of  logs  and  drift 
from  the  swamps  above  ;  rudely  pushing  their  way 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR. 


19 


through  the  willow  boughs,  they  tore  and  bruised 
the  fragile  tendrils  that  clung  to  the  rough  bark, 
scattering  the  tiny  leaves  which  followed  hope- 
lessly after  in  their  wake  or  danced  up  and  down 
in  the  hollow  eddies  behind  them.  Each  time  the 
willow  screen  moved,  the  gunnels  swayed  under  the 
forward  motion  of  the  eager  bodies  of  the  girls. 

"At  last!" 

They  turned  their  eyes  to  the  shaft  of  sunlight 
that  fell  through  the  plantation  clearing,  bridging 
the  stream.  The  skiff  touched,  entered,  and  passed 
through  it  with  a  marvellous  revelation  of  form  and 
color,  the  oars  silvering  and  dripping  diamonds, 
arrows  and  lances  of  light  scintillating  from  pol- 
ished steel,  golden  stars  rising  like  dust  from  tas- 
sels, cordons,  buttons,  and  epaulets,  while  the  blue 
clouds  themselves  seemed  to  have  fallen  from  their 
empyrean  heights  to  uniform  the  rowers  with  their 
own  celestial  hue — blue,  not  gray ! 

"  Rowlock  !  Rowlock  !"  What  loud,  frightful, 
threatening  reverberations  of  the  oars  !  And  the 
bayou  flowed  on  the  same,  and  the  cypress-trees 
gazed  stolidly  and  steadfastly  up  to  the  heavens, 
and  the  heavens  were  serenely  blue  and  white  ! 
But  the  earth  was  sympathetic,  the  ground  shook 
and  swayed  under  their  feet ;  or  was  it  the  rush  of 
thoughts  that  made  their  heads  so  giddy  ?  They 
tried  to  arrest  one  and  hold  it  for  guidance,  but 
on  they  sped,  leaving  only  wild  confusion  of  con- 
jecture behind. 


20  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

"  Rowlock  !  Rowlock  !"  The  rudder  headed 
the  bow  for  the  gunnels. 

"  Titine  !  Gina  !  Will  they  kill  us  all  ?"  whis- 
pered Lolotte,  with  anxious  horror. 

The  agile  Lou  Ann,  Lolotte's  most  efficient  co- 
adjutor and  Uncle  John's  most  successful  torment- 
or, dropped  her  bundle  of  fishing-poles  (which 
he  had  carefully  spread  on  his  roof  to  "cure  "),  and 
while  they  rolled  and  rattled  over  the  dry  shin- 
gles she  scrambled  with  inconceivable  haste  to 
her  corner  of  descent.  Holding  to  the  eaves 
while  her  excited  black  feet  searched  and  found 
the  top  of  the  window  that  served  as  a  step,  she 
dropped  into  the  ash-hopper  below.  Without  paus- 
ing, as  usual,  to  efface  betraying  evidences  of  her 
enterprise  from  her  person,  or  to  cover  her  tracks 
in  the  wet  ashes,  she  jumped  to  the  ground,  and 
ignoring  all  secreting  offers  of  bush,  fence,  or 
ditch,  contrary  to  her  custom,  she  ran  with  all  the 
speed  of  her  thin  legs  down  the  shortest  road  to 
the  quarters.  They  were,  as  she  knew,  deserted. 
The  doors  of  the  cabins  were  all  shut,  with  logs 
of  wood  or  chairs  propped  against  them.  The 
chickens  and  dogs  were  making  free  of  the  gal- 
leries, and  the  hogs  wallowed  in  peaceful  immu- 
nity underneath.  A  waking  baby  from  a  lonely 
imprisoned  cradle  sent  cries  for  relief  through  an 
open  window.  Lou  Ann,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  the  left,  slackened  not  her  steps,  but 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  21 

passed  straight  on  through  the  little  avenue  to 
the  great  white-oak  which  stood  just  outside  the 
levee  on  the  bank  of  the  bayou. 

Under  the  wide-spreading,  moss-hung  branches, 
upon  the  broad  flat  slope,  a  grand  general  washing 
of  the  clothes  of  the  small  community  was  in  busy 
progress  by  the  women,  a  proper  feminine  conse- 
cration of  this  purely  feminine  day.  The  daily 
irksome  routine  was  broken,  the  men  were  all 
away,  the  sun  was  bright  and  warm,  the  air  soft 
and  sweet.  The  vague  recesses  of  the  opposite 
forest  were  dim  and  silent,  the  bayou  played  under 
the  gunnels  in  caressing  modulations.  All  fur- 
thered the  hearkening  and  the  yielding  to  a  debo- 
nair mood,  with  disregard  of  concealment,  license 
of  pose,  freedom  of  limb,  hilarity,  conviviality,  au- 
dacities of  heart  and  tongue,  joyous  indulgence  in 
freak  and  impulse,  banishment  of  thought,  a  re- 
turn, indeed,  for  one  brief  moment  to  the  wild, 
sweet  ways  of  nature,  to  the  festal  days  of  ances- 
tral golden  age  (a  short  retrogression  for  them), 
when  the  body  still  had  claims,  and  the  mind  con- 
cessions, and  the  heart  owed  no  allegiance,  and 
when  god  and  satyr  eyes  still  might  be  caught 
peeping  and  glistening  from  leafy  covert  on  femi- 
nine midsummer  gambols.  Their  skirts  were  girt 
high  around  their  broad  full  hips,  their  dark  arms 
and  necks  came  naked  out  of  their  low,  sleeve- 
less, white  chemise  bodies,  and  glistened  with 
perspiration  in  the  sun  as  if  frosted  with  silver. 


22  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

Little  clouds  of  steam  rose  from  the  kettles  stand- 
ing around  them  over  heaps  of  burning  chips. 
The  splay  -  legged  battling  -  boards  sank  firmer 
and  firmer  into  the  earth  under  the  blows  of  the 
bats,  pounding  and  thumping  the  wet  clothes, 
squirting  the  warm  suds  in  all  directions,  up  into 
the  laughing  faces,  down  into  the  panting  bosoms, 
against  the  shortened,  clinging  skirts,  over  the 
bare  legs,  out  in  frothy  runnels  over  the  soft  red 
clay  corrugated  with  innumerable  toe-prints.  Out 
upon  the  gunnels  the  water  swished  and  foamed 
under  the  vigorous  movements  of  the  rinsers,  end- 
lessly bending  and  raising  their  flexible,  muscular 
bodies,  burying  their  arms  to  the  shoulders  in  the 
cool,  green  depths,  piling  higher  and  higher  the 
heaps  of  tightly-wrung  clothes  at  their  sides.  The 
water-carriers,  passing  up  and  down  the  narrow, 
slippery  plank- way,  held  the  evenly  filled  pails 
with  the  ease  of  coronets  upon  their  heads.  The 
children,  under  compulsion  of  continuous  threats 
and  occasional  chastisement,  fed  the  fire  with 
chips  from  distant  wood-piles,  squabbling  for  the 
possession  of  the  one  cane-knife  to  split  kindlers, 
imitating  the  noise  and  echoing  with  absurd  fidel- 
ity the  full-throated  laughter  that  interrupted  from 
time  to  time  the  work  around  the  wash-kettles. 

High  above  the  slop  and  tumult  sat  old  Aunt 
Mary,  the  official  sick-nurse  of  the  plantation,  com- 
monly credited  with  conjuring  powers.  She  held  a 
corn-cob  pipe  between  her  yellow  protruding  teeth, 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  23 

and  her  little  restless  eyes  travelled  inquisitively 
from  person  to  person  as  if  in  quest  of  profes- 
sional information,  twinkling  with  amusement  at 
notable  efforts  of  wit,  and  with  malice  at  the 
general  discomfiture  expressed  under  their  gaze. 
Heelen  sat  near,  nursing  her  baby.  She  had 
taken  off  her  kerchief,  and  leaned  her  uncovered 
head  back  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree ;  the  long 
wisps  of  wool,  tightly  wrapped  in  white  knitting- 
cotton,  rose  from  irregular  sections  all  over  her 
elongated  narrow  skull,  and  encircled  her  wrinkled, 
nervous,  toothless  face  like  some  ghastly  serpen- 
tine chevelure. 

"  De  Yankees  !  de  Yankees  !  I  seed  'em — at 
de  big  house  !  Little  mistus  she  come  for  Uncle 
John.     He  fotched  his  gun — for  to  shoot  'em," 

Lou  Ann  struggled  to  make  her  exhausted 
breath  carry  all  her  tidings.  After  each  item 
she  closed  her  mouth  and  swallowed  violently, 
working  her  muscles  until  her  little  horns  of 
hair  rose  and  moved  with  the  contortions  of  her 
face. 

"An'  dey  locked  a  passel  o'  men  up  in  de 
smoke-house— Cornfedrits." 

The  bats  paused  in  the  air,  the  women  on  the 
gunnels  lifted  their  arms  out  of  the  water,  those 
on  the  gang-plank  stopped  where  they  were  ;  only 
the  kettles  simmered  on  audibly. 

Lou  Ann  recommenced,  this  time  finishing  in 
one  breath,  with  the  added  emphasis  of  raising  her 


24  BAYOU    LOMBRE. 

arm  and  pointing  in  the  direction  from  whence 
she  came,  her  voice  getting  shriller  and  shriller 
to  the  end  : 

"  I  seed  'em.  Dey  was  Yankees.  Little  mis- 
tus  she  come  for  Uncle  John ;  he  fotched  his  gun 
for  to  shoot  'em ;  and  they  locked  a  passel  o' 
men  up  in  de  smoke-house — Cornfedrits." 

The  Yankees !  What  did  it  mean  to  them  ? 
How  much  from  the  world  outside  had  pene- 
trated into  the  unlettered  fastnesses  of  their  igno- 
rance ?  What  did  the  war  mean  to  them  ?  Had 
Bayou  I'Ombre  indeed  isolated  both  mind  ^nd 
body  ?  Had  the  subtle  time-spirit  itself  been  di- 
verted from  them  by  the  cut-off  ?  Could  their 
rude  minds  draw  no  inferences  from  the  gradual 
loosening  of  authority  and  relaxing  of  discipline  ? 
Did  they  neither  guess  nor  divine  their  share  in 
the  shock  of  battle  out  there  ?  Could  their  ghost- 
seeing  eyes  not  discern  the  martyr-spirits  rising 
from  two  opposing  armies,  pointing  at,  beckon- 
ing to  them  ?  If,  indeed,  the  water-shed  of  their 
destiny  was  forming  without  their  knowledge  as 
without  their  assistance,  could  not  maternal  in- 
stinct spell  it  out  of  the  heart-throbs  pulsing  into 
life  under  their  bosoms,  or  read  from  the  dumb 
faces  of  the  children  at  their  breast  the  triumph- 
ant secret  of  their  superiority  over  others  born  and 
nourished  before  them  ? 

Had  they,  indeed,  no  gratifications  beyond  the 
physical,  no   yearnings,  no   secret   burden  of  a 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  25 

secret  prayer  to  God,  these  bonded  wives  and 
mothers  ?  Was  this  careless,  happy,  indolent  ex- 
istence genuine,  or  only  a  fool's  motley  to  dis- 
guise a  tragedy  of  suffering  ?  What  to  them  was 
the  difference  between  themselves  and  their  mis- 
tresses ?  their  condition  ?  or  their  skin,  that  opaque 
black  skin  which  hid  so  well  the  secrets  of  life, 
which  could  feel  but  not  own  the  blush  of  shame, 
the  pallor  of  weakness. 

If  their  husbands  had  brought  only  rum  from 
their  stealthy  midnight  excursions  to  distant 
towns,  how  could  the  child  repeat  it  so  glibly — 
"Yankees — Cornfedrits  ?"  The  women  stood  still 
and  silent,  but  their  eyes  began  to  creep  around 
furtively,  as  if  seeking  degrees  of  complicity  in  a 
common  guilt,  each  waiting  for  the  other  to  con- 
fess comprehension,  to  assume  the  responsibility 
of  knowledge. 

The  clear-headed  children,  profiting  by  the  dis- 
traction of  attention  from  them,  stole  away  for 
their  fishing  engagement,  leaving  cane -knife  and 
chips  scattered  on  the  ground  behind  them.  The 
murmuring  of  the  bayou  seemed  to  rise  louder 
and  louder ;  the  cries  of  the  forsaken  baby,  clam- 
orous and  hoarse,  fell  distinctly  on  the  air. 

"  My  Gord  A'mighty  !" 

The  exclamation  was  uncompromising ;  it  re- 
lieved the  tension  and  encouraged  rejoinder. 

"  My  Lord  !— humph  !" 

One  bat  slowly  and  deliberately  began  to  beat 


26  BAYOU    l'OMBRE. 

again  —  Black  Maria's.  Her  tall,  straight  back 
was  to  them,  but,  as  if  they  saw  it,  they  knew  that 
her  face  was  settling  into  that  cold,  stern  rigidity 
of  hers,  the  keen  eyes  beginning  to  glisten,  the 
long,  thin  nostrils  nervously  to  twitch,  the  lips  to 
open  over  her  fine  white  teeth  —  the  expression 
they  hated  and  feared. 

"0-h!  o-h!  o-h!" 

A  long,  thin,  tremulous  vibration,  a  weird,  haunt- 
ing note  :  what  inspiration  suggested  it  ? 

"  Glo-o-ry  !" 

Old  Aunt  Mary  nodded  her  knowing  head  af- 
firmatively, as  if  at  the  fulfilment  of  a  silent  proph- 
ecy. She  quietly  shook  the  ashes  out  of  her  pipe, 
hunted  her  pocket,  put  it  in,  and  rising  stiffly  from 
the  root,  hobbled  away  on  her  stick  in  the  direc- 
tion of  her  cabin. 

"  Glo-o-ry !" 

Dead-arm  Harriet  stood  before  them,  with  her 
back  to  the  bayou,  her  right  arm  hanging  heavy 
at  her  side,  her  left  extended,  the  finger  pointing 
to  the  sky.  A  shapely  arm  and  tapering  finger ; 
a  comely,  sleek,  half -nude  body;  the  moist  lips, 
with  burning  red  linings,  barely  parting  to  emit 
the  sound  they  must  have  culled  in  uncanny  prac- 
tices. The  heavy  lids  drooped  over  the  large 
sleepy  eyes,  looking  with  languid  passion  from 
behind  the  thick  black  lashes. 

"  Glo-o-ry !"  It  stripped  their  very  nerves  and 
bared  secret  places  of  sensation  !     The  "  happy  " 


AN    INCIDENT    OF   THE    WAR.  27 

cry  of  revival  meetings — as  if  midnight  vi^ere  com- 
ing on,  salvation  and  the  mourners'  bench  be- 
fore them,  Judgment-day  and  fiery  flames  behind 
them,  and  "Sister  Harriet"  raising  her  voice  to 
call  them  on,  on,  through  hand  -  clapping,  foot- 
stamping,  shouting,  groaning,  screaming,  out  of 
their  sins,  out  of  their  senses,  to  rave  in  religious 
inebriation,  and  fall  in  religious  catalepsy  across 
the  floor  at  the  preacher's  feet.  With  a  wild  rush,- 
the  hesitating  emotions  of  the  women  sought  the 
opportune  outlet,  their  hungry  blood  bounding 
and  leaping  for  the  mid- day  orgy.  Obediently 
their  bodies  began  the  imperceptible  motion  right 
and  left,  and  the  veins  in  their  throats  to  swell  and 
stand  out  under  their  skins,  while  the  short,  fierce, 
intense  responsive  exclamations  fell  from  their 
lips  to  relieve  their  own  and  increase  the  exalta- 
tion of  the  others. 

"  Sweet  Christ !  sweet  Christ !" 
"  Take  me,  Saviour  !" 
"  Oh,  de  Lamb  !  de  Lamb  !" 
"I'm  a-coming!  I'm  a-coming  !" 
"  Hold  back,  Satan  !  we's  a-catching  on  f 
"  De  blood's  a-dripping  !  de  blood's  a-dripping !" 
"  Let  me  kiss  dat  cross  !  let  me  kiss  it !" 
"  Sweet  Master !" 

"Glo-o-ry!  Fre-e-dom!"  It  was  a  whisper,  but 
it  came  like  a  crash,  and  transfixed  them ;  their 
mouths  stood  open  with  the  last  words,  their 
bodies  remained  bent  to  one  side  or  the  other, 


28  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

the  febrile  light  in  their  eyes  burning  as  if  from 
their  blood  on  fire.  They  could  all  remember  the 
day  when  Dead -arm  Harriet,  the  worst  worker 
and  most  violent  tongue  of  the  gang,  stood  in  the 
clearing,  and  raising  that  dead  right  arm  over  her 
head,  cursed  the  overseer  riding  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. The  wind  had  been  blowing  all  day;  there 
was  a  sudden  loud  crack  above  them,  and  a  limb 
from  a  deadened  tree  broke,  sailed,  poised,  and 
fell  crashing  to  her  shoulder,  and  deadening  her 
arm  forever.  They  looked  instinctively  now  with 
a  start  to  the  oak  above  them,  to  the  sky — only 
moss  and  leaves  and  blue  and  white  clouds.  And 
still  Harriet's  voice  rose,  the  words  faster,  louder, 
bolder,  more  determined,  whipping  them  out  of 
their  awe,  driving  them  on  again  down  the  incline 
of  their  own  passions. 

"Glory!  Freedom!  Freedom!  Glory!" 
"  I'm  bound  to  see  'em  !  Come  along !" 
Heelen's  wild  scream  rang  shrill  and  hysterical. 
She  jerked  her  breast  from  the  sucking  lips,  and 
dropped  her  baby  with  a  thud  on  the  ground. 
They  all  followed  her  up  the  levee,  pressing  one 
after  the  other,  slipping  in  the  wet  clay,  strug- 
gling each  one  not  to  be  left  behind.  Em- 
meline,  the  wife  of  little  Ben,  the  only  yellow 
woman  on  the  place,  was  the  last.  Her  skirt 
was  held  in  a  grip  of  iron  ;  blinded,  obtuse,  she 
pulled  forward,  reaching  her  arms  out  after  the 
others. 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  29 

"  You  Stay  here  !" 

She  turned  and  met  the  determined  black  face 
of  her  mother-in-law. 

"You  let  me  go  !"  she  cried,  half  sobbing,  half 
angry. 

"  You  stay  here,  I  tell  you  !"  The  words  were 
muttered  through  clinched  teeth. 

"You  let  me  go,  I  tell  you  !" 

"  Glory  !     Freedom  !" 

The  others  had  already  left  the  quarters,  and 
were  on  the  road.  They  two  were  alone  on  the 
bank  now,  except  Heelen's  baby,  whimpering  un- 
der the  tree ;  their  blazing  eyes  glared  at  each 
other.  The  singing  voices  grew  fainter  and  faint- 
er. Suddenly  the  yellow  face  grew  dark  with  the 
surge  of  blood  underneath,  the  brows  wrinkled, 
and  the  lips  protruded  in  a  grimace  of  animal 
rage.  Grasping  her  wet  bat  tightly  with  both 
hands,  she  turned  with  a  furious  bound,  and  raised 
it  with  all  the  force  of  her  short  muscular  arms. 
The  black  woman  darted  to  the  ground  ;  the  cane- 
knife  flashed  in  the  air  and  came  down  pitilessly 
towards  the  soft  fleshy  shoulder.  A  wild,  terri- 
fied scream  burst  from  Emmeline's  lips ;  the  bat 
dropped  ;  seizing  her  skirt  with  both  hands,  she 
pulled  forward,  straining  her  back  out  of  reach  of 
the  knife;  the  homespun  tore,  and  she  fled  up  the 
bank,  her  yellow  limbs  gleaming  through  the  rent 
left  by  the  fragment  in  the  hand  of  the  black 
woman. 


30  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

The  prisoners  were  so  young,  so  handsome,  so 
heroic ;  the  very  incarnation  of  the  holy  spirit  of 
patriotism  in  their  pathetic  uniform  of  brimless 
caps,  ragged  jackets,  toeless  shoes,  and  shrunken 
trousers — a  veteran  equipment  of  wretchedness 
out  of  keeping  with  their  fresh  young  faces.  How 
proud  and  unsubdued  they  walked  through  the 
hall  between  the  file  of  bayonets!  With  what 
haughty,  defiant  eyes  they  returned  the  gaze  of 
their  insultingly  resplendent  conquerors !  Oh,  if 
girls'  souls  had  been  merchantable  at  that  moment ! 
Their  hands  tied  behind  their  backs  like  runaway 
slaves  !  Locked  up  in  the  smoke  -  house  !  that 
dark,  rancid,  gloomy,  mouldy  depot  of  empty  hogs- 
heads, barrels,  boxes,  and  fetid  exhalations. 

They  were  the  first  soldiers  in  gray  the  girls 
had  ever  seen ;  their  own  chivalrous  knights,  the 
champions  of  their  radiant  country.  What  was 
the  story  of  their  calamity?  Treacherously  en- 
trapped .-•  Overpowered  by  numbers  ?  Where 
were  their  companions — staring  with  mute,  cold, 
upturned  faces  from  pools  of  blood  ?  And  were 
these  to  be  led  helplessly  tethered  into  cap- 
tivity, imprisoned ;  with  ball  and  chain  to  gan- 
grene and  disgrace  their  strong  young  limbs,  or 
was  solitary  confinement  to  starve  their  hearts  and 
craze  their  minds,  holding  death  in  a  thousand 
loathsome,  creeping  shapes  ever  threatejiingly 
over  them  ? 

The  smoke-house  looked  sinister  and  inimical 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  31 

after  its  sudden  promotion  from  keeper  of  food 
to  keeper  of  men.  The  great  square  whitewashed 
logs  seemed  to  settle  more  ponderously  on  the 
ground  around  them,  the  pointed  roof  to  press 
down  as  if  the  air  of  heaven  were  an  emissary  to 
be  dreaded ;  the  hinges  and  locks  were  so  osten- 
tatiously massive  and  incorruptible.  What  artful, 
what  vindictive  security  of  carpenter  and  lock- 
smith to  exclude  thieves  or  immure  patriots ! 

The  two  eldest  girls  stood  against  the  open 
armoire  with  their  chill  fingers  interlaced.  Be- 
yond the  wrinkled  back  of  Uncle  John's  copperas- 
dyed  coat  before  them  lay  the  region  of  brass 
buttons  and  blue  cloth  and  hostility;  but  they 
would  not  look  at  it ;  they  turned  their  heads 
away;  the  lids  of  their  eyes  refused  to  lift  and 
reveal  the  repugnant  vision  to  them.  If  their 
ears  had  only  been  equally  sensitive ! 

"  And  so  you  are  the  uncle  of  the  young  ladies  ? 
Brother  of  the  father  or  mother.'"'  What  clear, 
incisive,  nasal  tones  !  Thank  Heaven  for  the  dif- 
ference between  them  of  the  voice  at  least ! 

The  captain's  left  arm  was  in  a  sling,  but  his 
hand  could  steadily  hold  the  note-book  in  which 
he  carefully  pencilled  Uncle  John's  answers  to 
his  minute  cross-examination — a  dainty,  fragrant, 
Russia  -  leather  note  -  book,  with  monogram  and 
letters  and  numbers  emblazoned  on  the  outside 
in  national  colors.  It  had  photographs  inside, 
also,  which  he  would  pause  and  admire  from  time 


32  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

to  time,  reading  the  tender  dedications  aloud  to 
his  companions. 

"And  the  lady  in  the  kitchen  called  mammy? 
She  is  the  mother,  I  guess  ?" 

"  P-p-p-peggy's  a  nigger,  and  my  mistresses  is 
white,"  stuttered  Uncle  John. 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  Gentlemen  in  my  uniform  find 
it  difficult  to  remember  these  trifling  distinctions 
of  color." 

What  tawdry  pleasantry !  What  hypocritical 
courtesy !  What  exquisite  ceremony  and  dainty 
manual  for  murderous  dandies  ! 

"  Ef-ef-ef-ef  I  hadn't  done  gone  and  forgot  dem 
caps !" 

Uncle  John  stood  before  his  young  mistresses 
erect  and  determined,  his  old  double-barrel  shot- 
gun firmly  clasped  in  his  tremulous  hands,  his 
blear,  bloodshot  eyes  fearlessly  measuring  the 
foe.  If  it  were  to  be  five  hundred  lashes  on  his 
bare  back  under  the  trees  out  there  (terms  on 
which  he  would  gladly  have  compromised),  or, 
his  secret  fear,  a  running  noose  over  one  of  the 
branches,  or  the  murderous  extravagance  of  powder 
and  shot  for  him,  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  de- 
spite every  penalty,  to  fulfil  his  duty  and  stand  by 
his  word  to  Marse  John.  Ever  since  the  time  the 
little  crawling  white  boy  used  to  follow  the  great 
awkward  black  boy  around  like  a  shadow,  John  had 
made  a  cult  of  Marse  John.  He  had  taught  him 
as  a  child  to  fish,  hunt,  trap  birds,  to  dress  skins. 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  33 

knit  gloves,  and  play  cards  on  the  sly,  to  fight 
cocks  on  Sunday,  to  stutter,  to  cut  the  "pigeon 
wing  "  equal  to  any  negro  in  the  State — and  other 
personal  accomplishments  besides.  He  had  stood 
by  him  through  all  his  scrapes  as  a  youth,  was 
valet  to  all  his  frolics  as  a  young  man,  and  now 
in  his  old  age  he  gardened  for  him,  and  looked 
after  the  young  ladies  for  him,  stretching  or  con- 
tracting his  elastic  moral  code  as  occasion  re- 
quired ;  but  he  had  never  deceived  him  nor  falsi- 
fied his  word  to  him.  He  knew  all  about  the 
war :  Marse  John  had  told  him.  He  knew  what 
Marse  John  meant  when  he  left  the  children  to 
him,  and  Marse  John  knew  what  to  expect  from 
John.  He  would  treat  them  civilly  as  long  as 
they  were  civil,  but  his  gun  was  loaded,  both  bar- 
rels with  bullets,  and — 

"  Ef-ef-ef-ef  I  hadn't  done  gone  and  forgot  dera 
caps !" 

There  was  his  powder-horn  under  one  arm, 
there  was  his  shot-flask  filled  with  the  last  batch 
of  slugs  under  the  other ;  but  the  caps  were  not 
in  his  right-hand  coat-pocket,  they  were  in  his 
cupboard,  hidden  for  safety  under  a  pile  of  gar- 
den "  truck." 

The  busy  martins  twittered  in  and  out  of  their 
little  lodge  under  the  eaves  of  the  smoke-house. 
Regina  and  Christine  were  powerless  to  prevent 
furtive  glances  in  that  direction.  Could  ihepn's- 
oners  hear  it  inside  ?  Could  they  see  the  sun  trav- 
3 


34  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

elling  westward,  crack  by  crack,  chink  by  chink,  in 
the  roof?  Could  they  feel  it  sinking,  and  with  it 
sinking  all  their  hopes  of  deliverance  ?  Or  did 
they  hope  still  ? 

Maidens  had  mounted  donjon  towers  at  mid- 
night, had  eluded  Argus-eyed  sentinels,  had 
drugged  savage  blood-hounds,  had  crossed  light- 
ning-flashed seas,  had  traversed  robber -infested 
forests ;  whatever  maidens  had  done  they  would 
do,  for  could  ever  men  more  piteously  implore 
release  from  castle  keep  than  these  gray- clad 
youths  from  the  smoke-house?  And  did  ever 
maiden  hearts  beat  more  valiantly  than  theirs  ? 
(and  did  ever  maiden  limbs  tremble  more  cow- 
ardly ?)  Many  a  tedious  day  had  been  lightened 
by  their  rehearsal  of  just  such  a  drama  as  this ; 
they  had  prepared  roles  for  every  imaginable  san- 
guinary circumstance,  but  prevision,  as  usual,  had 
overlooked  the  unexpected.  The  erstwhile  fea- 
sible conduct,  the  erstwhile  feasible  weapons,  of  a 
Jeanne  d'Arc  or  Charlotte  Corday,  the  defiant 
speeches,  the  ringing  retorts — how  inappropriate, 
inadequate,  here  and  now !  If  God  would  only 
help  them  !  but,  like  the  bayou,  the  cypresses,  and 
the  blue  sky,  He  seemed  to-day  eternally  above 
such  insignificant  human  necessities  as  theirs. 

Without  the  aid  of  introspection  or  the  fear  of 
capital  punishment,  Lolotte  found  it  very  difficult 
to  maintain  the  prolonged  state  of  rigidity  into 
which  her  sisters  had  frozen  themselves.    All  the 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  35 

alleviations  devised  during  a  wearisome  experi- 
ence of  compulsory  attendance  on  plantation  fu- 
nerals were  exhausted  in  the  course  of  this  pro- 
tracted, hymnless,  prayerless  solemnity.  She 
stood  wedged  in  between  them  and  the  armoire 
which  displayed  all  its  shelves  of  allurements  to 
her.  There  were  her  bird-traps  just  within  reach  ; 
there  was  the  fascinating  bag  of  nux-vomica  root 
' — crow  poison ;  there  was  the  little  old  work-box 
filled  with  ammunition,  which  she  was  forbidden 
to  touch,  and  all  the  big  gar-fish  lines  and  har- 
poons and  decoy-ducks.  There  were  her  own 
perch  lines,  the  levy  she  had  raised  in  favor  of 
her  companions ;  they  were  neatly  rolled,  ready 
to  tie  on  the  rods,  only  needing  sinkers  ;  and 
there  was  the  old  Indian  basket  filled  with  odds 
and  ends,  an  unfailing  treasure  of  resource  and 
surprise.  She  was  just  about  searching  in  it  for 
sinkers  when  this  interruption  occurred. 

The  sky  was  so  bright  over  the  fields  !  Just 
the  evening  to  go  fishing,  whether  they  caught 
anything  or  not.  If  the  enemy  would  only  hurry 
and  go,  there  might  still  be  time ;  they  would 
leave,  they  said,  as  soon  as  mammy  cooked  them 
something  to  eat.  She  had  seen  mammy  chasing 
a  chicken  through  the  yard.  She  wondered  how 
the  nice,  fat  little  round  "  doodles  "  were  getting 
on  in  their  tin  can  under  the  house ;  she  never 
had  had  such  a  fine  box  of  bait ;  she  wondered 
if  the  negro  children  would  go  all  the  same  with- 


36  BAYOU    LORIBRE. 

out  her;  she  wondered  if  she  could  see  them 
creeping  down  the  road.  How  easy  she  could 
have  got  away  from  Uncle  John  !  Anything  al- 
most would  do  for  sinkers — bits  of  iron,  nails  ; 
they  had  to  do  since  her  father  and  Uncle  John 
made  their  last  moulding  of  bullets.  She  thought 
they  might  have  left  her  just  one  real  sinker  sim- 
ply as  a  matter  of  distinction  between  herself  and 
the  little  darkies.  Her  eyes  kept  returning  to  the 
Indian  basket,  and  if  she  stopped  twisting  her  fin- 
gers one  over  the  other  but  a  moment  they  would 
take  their  way  to  rummaging  among  the  rusty 
contents. 

"  Glory  !     Freedom  !" 

In  came  the  negresses,  Bacchantes  drunk  with 
the  fumes  of  their  own  hot  blood,  Dead-arm  Har- 
riet, like  a  triumphant  sorceress,  leading  them, 
waving  and  gesticulating  with  her  one  "  live  "  arm, 
all  repeating  over  and  over  again  the  potent 
magical  words,  oblivious  of  the  curious  looks  of 
the  men,  their  own  exposure,  the  presence  of  their 
mistresses,  of  everything  but^their  own  ecstasy. 

"  Freedom  !     Master  !     Freedom  !" 

Christine  and  Regina  raised  their  heads  and 
looked  perplexed  at  the  furious  women  in  the 
yard,  and  the  men  gazing  down  to  them. 

What  was  the  matter  with  them  ?  What  did 
they  mean  ?     What  was  it  all  about .-' 

"  Freedom  !     Freedom  !" 

Then    light   broke    upon    them ;    their  fingers 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  37 

tightened  in  each  other's  clasp,  and  their  cheeks 
flushed  crimson. 

"How  dared  they.?   What  insolence  !    What — " 

The  opposite  door  stood  open  ;  they  rushed 
across  the  hall  and  closed  it  between  them  and 
the  liLmiiliating  scene.  This,  this  they  had  not 
thought  of,  this  they  had  never  read  about,  this 
their  imagination  in  wildest  flights  had  not  vent- 
ured upon.  This  was  not  a  superficial  conflict 
to  sweep  the  earth  with  cannons  and  mow  it  with 
sabres ;  this  was  an  earthquake  which  had  rent 
it  asunder,  exposing  the  quivering  organs  of  hid- 
den life.  What  a  chasm  was  yawning  before 
them  !  There  was  no  need  to  listen  one  to  the 
other ;  the  circumstances  could  wring  from  the 
hearts  of  millions  but  one  sentiment,  the  tongue 
was  left  no  choice  of  words. 

"  Let  them  go  !  let  them  be  driven  out !  never, 
never  to  see  them  again !" 

The  anger  of  outraged  affection,  betrayed  con- 
fidence, abandoned  trust,  traitorous  denial,  raged 
within  them. 

These  were  their  servants,  their  possessions  ! 
From  generation  to  generation  their  lives  had 
been  woven  together  by  the  shuttle  of  destiny. 
How  flimsy  and  transparent  the  fabric  !  how  gro- 
tesque and  absurd  the  tapestry,  with  its  vaunted 
traditions  of  mutual  loyalty  and  devotion  !  What 
a  farce,  what  a  lying,  disgusting  farce  it  had  all 
been  !     Well,  it  was  over  now ;  that  was  a  com- 


38  BAYOU    l'OMBRE. 

fort — all  over,  all  ended.  If  the  hearts  had  in- 
tergrown,  they  were  torn  apart  now.  After  this 
there  was  no  return,  no  reconciliation  possible  ! 
Through  the  storm  of  their  emotions  a  thought 
drifted,  then  another ;  little  detached  scenes  flit- 
ted into  memory;  familiar  gestures,  speeches, 
words,  one  reminiscence  drawing  another.  Thick- 
er and  thicker  came  little  episodes  of  their  pas- 
toral existence  together ;  the  counter  interchanges 
of  tokens,  homely  presents,  kind  offices,  loving 
remembrances  ;  the  mutual  assistance  and  con- 
solation in  all  the  accidents  "of  life  traversed  to- 
gether, the  sicknesses,  the  births,  the  deaths  ;  and 
so  many  thousand  trivial  incidents  of  long,  long 
ago  —  memory  had  not  lost  one  —  down  to  the 
fresh  eggs  and  the  pop-corn  of  that  very  morning ; 
they  were  all  there,  falling  upon  their  bruised 
hearts. 

In  the  hearts  of  the  women  out  there  were  only 
shackles  and  scourges.  What  of  the  long  Sun- 
days of  Bible  -  reading  and  catechism,  the  long 
evenings  of  woodland  tales ;  the  confidences ; 
the  half-hours  around  the  open  fireplaces  when 
supper  was  cooking,  the  potatoes  under  their 
hillocks  of  ashes,  the  thin-legged  ovens  of  corn- 
bread  with  their  lids  of  glowing  coals,  the  savory 
skillets  of  fried  meat,  the —  Was  it  indeed  all 
of  the  past,  never  again  to  be  present  or  future  ? 
And  those  humble,  truthful,  loving  eyes,  which 
had  looked  up  to  them  from  the  first  moment 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  39 

of  their  lives  :  did  they  look  with  greater  trust 
up  to  God  Himself?  It  was  all  over,  yes,  all 
over !  The  color  faded  from  their  faces,  the 
scornful  resolution  left  their  lips ;  they  laid  their 
faces  in  their  hands  and  sobbed. 

"  Do  you  hear,  Titine  ?"  Lolotte  burst  into 
the  room.  "  They  are  all  going  to  leave,  every 
one  of  them ;  a  transport  is  coming  to-night  to 
take  them  off.  They  are  going  to  bundle  up 
their  things  and  wait  at  the  steamboat-landing ; 
and  they  are  not  going  to  take  a  child,  and  not 
a  single  husband.  The  captain  says  the  govern- 
ment at  Washington  will  give  them  the  nicest 
white  husbands  in  the  land ;  that  they  ought  to 
be  glad  to  marry  them.  They  carried  on  as  if 
they  were  drunk.  Do  you  believe  it,  Titine  ? 
Oh,  I  do  wish  Jeff  Davis  would  hurry  up  and 
win  !" 

The  door  opened  again  ;  it  was  Black  Maria, 
still  holding  the  cane  -  knife  in  her  hand.  She 
crossed  the  room  with  her  noiseless  barefooted 
tread,  and  placed  herself  behind  them.  They 
did  not  expect  her  to  say  anything ;  Black  Maria 
never  talked  much ;  but  they  understood  her,  as 
they  always  did. 

Her  skirts  were  still  tied  up,  her  head-kerchief 
awry;  they  saw  for  the  first  time  that  the  wool 
under  it  was  snow-white. 

Black  Maria!  They  might  have  known  it! 
They  looked  at  her.     No  !     She  was  not !     She 


40  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

was  not  negro,  like  the  others.  Who  was  she  ? 
What  was  she  ?  Wliere  did  she  come  from,  with 
her  white  features  and  white  nature  under  her 
ebon  skin  ?  What  was  the  mystery  that  envel- 
oped her  ?  Why  did  the  brain  always  torture  it- 
self in  surmises  about  her  ?  Why  did  she  not 
talk  as  the  others  did,  and  just  for  a  moment  un- 
cover that  coflfin  heart  of  hers?  Why  was  she, 
alone  of  all  the  negroes,  still  an  alien,  a  foreigner, 
an  exile  among  them  ?  Was  she  brooding  on 
disgrace,  outrage,  revenge  ?  Was  she  looking  at 
some  mirage  behind  her — a  distant  equatorial 
country,  a  princely  rank,  barbaric  state,  some  in- 
herited memory  transmitted  by  that  other  Black 
Maria,  her  mother  ?  Who  was  the  secret  black 
father  whom  no  one  had  discovered  ?  Was  it,  as 
the  negroes  said,  the  Prince  of  Darkness  ?  Who 
was  her  own  secret  consort,  the  father  of  Ben  ? 
What  religion  had  she  to  warrant  her  scornful  re- 
pudiation of  Christianity  ?  What  code  that  en- 
abled her  to  walk  as  if  she  were  free  through 
slavery,  to  assume  slavery  now  when  others  hailed 
freedom,  to  be  loyal  in  the  midst  of  treason  ? 

"Look!"  Lolotte  came  into  the  room,  and  held 
up  a  rusty,  irregular  piece  of  iron.  "  I  found 
this  in  the  old  Indian  basket  where  I  was  look- 
ing for  sinkers.  Don't  you  see  what  it  is  ?  It  is 
the  old  key  of  the  smoke-house,  and  I  am  going 
to  let  those  Confederates  out."  She  spoke 
quietly  and    decidedly.      I'here  was   something 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  41 

else  in  the  other  hand,  concealed  in  the  folds  of 
her  dress.  She  produced  it  reluctantly.  It  was 
the  gun-wrench  that  filled  so  prominent  a  part  in 
her  active  life — always  coveting  it,  getting  pos- 
session of  it,  being  deprived  of  it,  and  accused 
unfailingly  for  its  every  absence  and  misplace- 
ment. "  You  see,  it  is  so  convenient ;  it  screws 
so  nicely  on  to  everything,"  she  continued,  apol- 
ogetically, as  she  demonstrated  the  useful  qualifi- 
cation by  screwing  it  on  to  the  key.  "  There  !  it 
is  as  good  as  a  handle.  All  they've  got  to  do  is 
to  slip  away  in  the  skiff  while  the  others  are  eat- 
ing. And  I  would  like  to  know  how  they  can 
ever  be  caught,  without  another  boat  on  the 
place  !  But  oh,  girls  " — her  black  eyes  twinkled 
maliciously — "  what  fools  the  Yankees  are  1" 

If  the  Federals,  as  they  announced,  were  only 
going  to  remain  long  enough  for  the  lady  in  the 
kitchen  to  prepare  them  something  to  eat,  the 
length  of  their  stay  clearly  rested  in  Peggy  the 
cook's  hands,  as  she  understood  it.  She  walked 
around  her  kitchen  with  a  briskness  rarely  per- 
mitted by  her  corpulent  proportions,  and  with  an 
intuitive  faith  in  the  common  nature  of  man  re- 
gardless of  political  opinion,  she  exerted  her  cu- 
linary skill  to  the  utmost.  She  knew  nothing  of 
the  wholesale  quarrelling  and  fighting  of  a  great 
war,  but  during  her  numerous  marital  experi- 
ments, not  counting  intermittent  conjugalities  for 
twenty-five  years  with  Uncle  John,  she  had  seen 


42  BAYOU    l'OMBRE. 

inercy  and  propitiation  flow  more  than  once  after 
a  good  meal  from  the  most  irate  ;  and  a  healthy 
digestion  aiding,  she  never  despaired  of  even 
the  most  revengeful.  The  enemy,  in  her  opinion, 
were  simply  to' be  treated  like  furious  husbands, 
and  were  to  be  offered  the  best  menu  possible 
under  the  trying  circumstances.  She  worked,  in- 
spired by  all  the  wife-lore  of  past  ages,  the  infil- 
trated wisdom  that  descends  to  women  in  the 
course  of  a  world  of  empirical  connubiality,  that 
traditionary  compendium  to  their  lives  by  which 
they  still  hope  to  make  companionship  with  men 
harmonious  and  the  earth  a  pleasant  abiding-place. 
With  minute  particularity  Peggy  set  the  table  and 
placed  the  dishes.  The  sun  was  now  sinking,  and 
sending  almost  horizontal  rays  over  the  roof  of 
the  smoke-house,  whose  ugly  square  frame  com- 
pletely blocked  the  view  of  the  dining-room  win- 
dow. Peggy  carefully  drew  the  red  calico  curtain 
across  it,  and  after  a  moment's  rehearsal  to  bring 
her  features  to  the  conventional  womanly  ex- 
pression of  cheerful  obtuseness  to  existing  dis- 
pleasure, she  opened  the  dining-room  door. 

Gina  and  Lolotte  stood  close  under  the  win- 
dow against  the  dwelling,  looking  at  the  locked 
door  of  the  smoke-house  before  them,  listening  to 
the  sounds  falling  from  the  dining-room  above. 
Once  in  the  skiff,  the  prisoners  were  safe ;  but 
the  little  red  curtain  of  the  window  fluttering 
flimsily  in  the  breeze  coquetted  with  their  hopes 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  43 

and  the  lives  of  three  men.  If  the  corners  would 
but  stay  down  a  second  !  Titine  and  Black  Ma- 
ria were  in  front,  busy  about  the  skiff.  Peggy's 
culinary  success  appeared,  from  the  comments  of 
the  diners,  to  be  complimentary  to  her  judgment. 
But  food  alone,  however,  does  not  suffice  in 
the  critical  moments  of  life  ;  men  are  half  man- 
aged when  only  fed.  There  was  another  menu, 
the  ingredients  of  which  were  not  limited  or 
stinted  by  blockade  of  war.  Fe.ggy  had  pre- 
pared that  also  ;  and  in  addition  to  the  sounds 
of  plates,  knives,  forks,  and  glasses,  came  the 
tones  of  her  rich  voice  dropping  from  a  quick 
tongue  the  entremets  of  her  piquant  imagination. 
The  attention  in  the  room  seemed  tense,  and  at 
last  the  curtain  hung  straight  and  motionless. 

"  Now  !  now !"  whispered  Gina.  "  We  must 
risk  something." 

Woman-like,  they  paused  midway  and  looked 
back ;  a  hand  stretched  from  the  table  was  care- 
lessly drawing  the  curtain  aside,  and  the  window 
stared  unhindered  at  the  jail. 

Why  had  they  waited  ?  Why  had  they  not 
rushed  forward  immediately  1  By  this  time  their 
soldiers  might  have  been  free  !  They  could  hear 
Peggy  moving  around  the  table ;  they  could  see 
her  bulky  form  push  again  and  again  across  the 
window. 

"  Mammy  !     Mammy  !" 

Could   she   hear   them  ?     They  clasped   their 


44  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

hands  and  held  their  faces  up  in  imploring  ap- 
peal. The  sun  was  setting  fast,  almost  running 
down  the  west  to  the  woods.  The  dinner,  if  good, 
was  not  long.     It  all  depended  upon  Peggy  now. 

"  Mammy  !  Mammy  !"  They  raised  their  lit- 
tle voices,  then  lowered  them  in  agony  of  appre- 
hension.   "  Mammy,  do  something  !    Help  us  !" 

But  still  she  passed  on  and  about,  around  the 
table,  and  across  the  window,  blind  to  the  smoke- 
house, deaf  to  them,  while  her  easy,  familiar 
voice  recited  the  comical  gyrations  of  "  old  Friz- 
zly," the  half-witted  hen,  who  had  set  her  heart 
against  being  killed  and  stewed,  and  ran  and  hid, 
and  screamed  and  cackled,  and  ducked  and  flew, 
and  then,  after  her  silly  head  was  twisted  off, 
"just  danced,  as  if  she  were  at  a  "Cadian'  ball, 
all  over  the  yard." 

It  would  soon  be  too  late !  It  was,  perhaps, 
too  late  now ! 

Black  Maria  had  got  the  skiff  away  from  the 
gunnels,  but  they  might  just  as  well  give  it  up ; 
they  would  not  have  time  enough  now. 

"  Mammy !"  The  desperate  girls  made  a  su- 
preme effort  of  voice  and  look.  The  unctuous 
black  face,  the  red  bead  ear-rings,  the  bandanna 
head-kerchief,  appeared  at  the  window  with  "  old 
Frizzly's "  last  dying  cackle.  There  was  one 
flashing  wink  of  the  left  eye. 

Her  nurslings  recognized  then  her  piece  dc  re- 
sistance  oratoire  —  a   side-splitting   prank   once 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR. 


45 


played  upon  her  by  another  nursling,  her  pet,  her 
idol,  the  plague  of  her  life — Beau. 

Who  could  have  heard  grating  lock  or  squeak- 
ing hinges  through  the  boisterous  mirth  that  fol- 
lowed? Who  could  have  seen  the  desperate 
bound  of  the  three  imprisoned  soldiers  for  liberty 
through  that  screen  of  sumptuous  flesh — the  mag- 
nificent back  of  Mammy  that  filled  to  overlap- 
ping the  insignificant  little  window  ? 

They  did  not  wait  to  hear  the  captain's  rapt- 
urous toast  to  Peggy  in  sassafras  tea,  nor  his  vol- 
uble protestations  of  love  to  her,  nor  could  they 
see  him  in  his  excitement  forgetting  his  wounded 
arm,  bring  both  clinched  fists  with  a  loud  bravo 
to  the  table,  and  then  faint  dead  away. 

"  I  knew  it !" 

"  Just  like  him  !" 

"  Take  him  in  the  air — quick  !" 

"  No,  sir !  You  take  him  in  there,  and  put 
him  on  the  best  bed  in  the  house."  Peggy  did 
not  move  from  the  window,  but  her  prompt  com- 
mand turned  the  soldiers  from  the  door  in  the 
hall,  and  her  finger  directed  them  to  the  closed 
bed-chamber. 

Without  noticing  Christine  standing  by  the 
open  window,  they  dropped  their  doughty  bur- 
den— boots,  spurs,  sword,  epaulets,  and  all — on 
the  fresh,  white  little  bed,  the  feather  mattress 
flufling  up  all  around  as  if  to  submerge  him. 

"  Oh,  don't  bother  about  that ;  cut  the  sleeve  off!" 


46  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

"  Who  has  a  knife  ?" 

"  There." 

"That's  all  right  now." 

"  He's  coming  round." 

"  There's  one  nice  coat  spoiled." 

"Uncle  Sam  has  plenty  more." 

"  Don't  let  it  drip  on  the  bed." 

"  Save  it  to  send  to  Washington — trophy — wet 
with  rebel  blood." 

The  captain  was  evidently  recovering. 

"You  stay  here  while  I  keep  'em  eating,"  whis- 
pered Peggy,  authoritatively,  to  Christine. 

Titine  trembled  as  if  she  had  an  ague. 

"  How  could  they  help  seeing  the  tall  form  of 
Black  Maria  standing  in  the  prow  of  the  boat  out 
in  the  very  middle  of  the  bayou  ?  Suppose  she, 
Titine,  had  not  been  there  to  close  the  window 
quick  as  thought  ?  Suppose  instead  of  passing 
through  her  room  she  had  run  through  the  base- 
ment, as  she  intended,  after  pushing  off  the  skiff  ?" 

Rollicking,  careless,  noisj^,  the  soldiers  went 
back  to  their  interrupted  meal,  while  the  boat 
went  cautiously  clown  the  bayou  to  the  meeting 
place  beyond  the  clearing. 

"  How  far  was  Black  Maria  now  ?"  Titine 
opened  the  window  a  tiny  crack.  "  Heavens ! 
how  slowly  she  paddled !  lifting  the  oar  deliber- 
ately from  side  to  side,  looking  straight  ahead. 
How  clear  and  distinct  she  was  in  the  soft  even- 
ing light !    Why  did  she  not  hurry  ?  why  did  she 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR. 


47 


not  row?  She  could  have  muffled  the  oars.  But 
no,  no  one  thought  of  that ;  that  was  always  the 
way — always  something  overlooked  and  forgotten. 
The  soldiers  could  finish  a  dozen  dinners  before 
the  skiff  got  out  of  sight  at  this  rate.  Without  the 
skiff  the  prisoners  might  just  as  well  be  locked 
still  in  the  smoke-house.  Did  he  on  the  bed  sus- 
pect something,  seeing  her  look  out  this  way?" 
She  closed  the  window  tight. 

"  How  dark  the  room  was  !  She  could  hardly 
see  the  wounded  man.  How  quiet  he  was  !  Was 
he  sleeping,  or  had  he  fainted  again  ?  In  her  bed  ! 
her  enemy  lying  in  her  bed !  his  head  on  her  pil- 
low, her  own  little  pillow,  the  feverish  confidant 
of  so  many  sleepless  nights !  How  far  were  they 
now  on  the  bayou?  She  must  peep  out  again. 
Why,  Maria  had  not  moved !  not  moved  an  inch ! 
Oh,  if  she  could  only  scream  to  her !  if  she  were 
only  in  the  skiff  ! 

"  How  ghastly  pale  he  looked  on  the  bed  !  his 
face  as  white  as  the  coverlet,  his  hair  and  beard 
so  black ;  how  changed  without  his  bravado  and 
impertinence!  And  he  was  not  old,  either;  not 
older  than  the  boys  in  gray.  She  had  fancied 
that  age  and  ugliness  alone  could  go  with  violence 
and  wrong.  How  much  gold  !  how  much  glitter  ! 
Why,  the  sun  did  not  rise  with  more  splendor  of 
equipment.  Costumed  as  if  for  the  conquest  of 
worlds.  If  the  Yankees  dressed  their  captains 
this  way,  what  was  the  livery  of  their  generals  ? 


48  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

How  curious  the  sleeveless  arm  looked  !  What 
a  horrible  mark  the  gash  made  right  across  the 
soft  white  skin !  What  a  scar  it  would  leave ! 
What  a  disfigurement !  And  this,  this  is  what 
men  call  love  of  country  !" 

On  Saturday  nights  sometimes,  in  the  quarters, 
when  rum  had  been  smuggled  in,  the  negroes 
would  get  to  fighting  and  beating  their  wives,  and 
her  father  would  be  sent  for  in  a  hurry  to  come 
with  his  gun  and  separate  them.  Hatchets,  axes, 
cane-knives  —  anything  they  would  seize,  to  cut 
and  slash  one  another,  husbands,  wives,  mothers, 
sons,  sisters,  brothers;  but  they  were  negroes, 
ignorant,  uneducated,  barbarous,  excited ;  they 
could  not  help  it ;  they  could  not  be  expected  to 
resist  all  at  once  the  momentum  of  centuries  of 
ancestral  ferocity.  But  for  white  men,  gentlemen, 
thus  furiously  to  mar  and  disfigure  their  own 
mother-given  bodies !  All  the  latent  maternal  in- 
stinct in  her  was  roused,  all  the  woman  in  her  re- 
volted against  the  sacrilegious  violence  of  muti- 
lation. "  Love  of  country  to  make  her  childless, 
or  only  the  mother  of  invalids!  This  was  only 
one.  What  of  the  other  thousands  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  ?  Are  men  indeed  so  inexhaustible  ? 
Are  the  pangs  of  maternity  so  cheap  ?  Are  wom- 
en's hearts  of  no  account  whatever  in  the  settle- 
ment of  disputes?  O  God!  cannot  the  world 
get  along  without  war  ?  But  even  if  men  want  it, 
even  if  God  permits  it,  how  can  the  women  allow 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR. 


49 


it  ?  If  the  man  on  the  bed  were  a  negro,  she 
could  do  something  for  his  arm.  Many  a  time, 
early  Sunday  mornings,  Saturday  night  culprits 
had  come  to  her  secretly,  and  she  had  washed  off 
the  thick,  gummy  blood,  and  bandaged  up  their 
cuts  and  bruises ;  they  did  not  show  so  on  black 
skin.  .  .  .  This  man  had  a  mother  somewhere 
among  the  people  she  called  '  enemies ;'  a  mother 
sitting  counting  day  by  day  the  continued  posses- 
sion of  a  live  son,  growing  gray  and  old  before 
that  terrible  next  minute  ever  threatening  to  take 
her  boy  and  give  her  a  corpse.  Or  perhaps,  like 
her  own,  his  mother  might  be  dead.  They  might 
be  friends  in  that  kingdom  which  the  points  of  the 
compass  neither  unite  nor  divide ;  together  they 
might  be  looking  down  on  this  quarrelling,  fight- 
ing world  ;  mothers,  even  though  angels,  looking, 
looking  through  smoke  and  powder  and  blood 
and  hatred  after  their  children.  Their  eyes 
might  be  fixed  on  this  lonely  little  spot,  on  this 
room.  .  .  ."     She  walked  to  the  bed. 

The  blood  was  oozing  up  through  the  strips  of 
plaster.  She  stanched  and  bathed  and  soothed 
the  wound  as  she  well  knew  how  with  her  tender, 
agile  fingers,  and  returned  to  the  window.  Maria 
had  disappeared  now  ;  she  could  open  the  window 
with  impunity.  The  trackless  water  was  flowing 
innocently  along,  the  cooling  air  was  rising  in  mist, 
the  cypress -trees  checked  the  brilliant  sky  with 
the  filigree  and  net-work  of  their  bristly  foliage. 


50  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

The  birds  twittered,  the  chickens  loitered  and 
dallied  on  their  way  to  roost.  The  expectant  dogs 
were  lying  on  the  levee  waiting  for  the  swampers, 
who,  they  ought  to  know,  could  not  possibly  re- 
turn before  midnight.  And  Molly  was  actually  on 
time  this  evening,  lowing  for  mammy  to  come  and 
milk  her ;  what  was  the  war  to  her  ?  How  happy 
and  peaceful  it  all  was  !  What  a  jarring  contrast 
to  swords  and  bayonets  !  Thank  God  that  Nature 
was  impartial,  and  could  not  be  drilled  into  par- 
tisanship !  If  humanity  were  like  Nature  !  If — 
if  there  had  been  no  war  !  She  paused,  shocked 
at  her  first  doubt ;  of  the  great  Circumstance  of 
her  life  it  was  like  saying,  "  If  there  had  been  no 
God !" 

As  she  stood  at  the  window  and  thought,  all  the 
brilliant  coloring  of  her  romantic  fantasies,  the 
stories  of  childhood,  the  perversions  of  education, 
the  self-delusions,  they  all  seemed  to  fade  with 
the  waning  light,  and  with  the  beautiful  day  sink 
slowly  and  quietly  into  the  irrevocable  past. 
"  Thank  God,  above  all,  that  it  is  a  human  de- 
vice to  uniform  people  into  friends  and  enemies ! 
The  heart  (her  own  felt  so  soft  and  loving) — the 
heart  repudiates  such  attempts  of  blue  and  gray ; 
it  still  clings  to  Nature,  and  belongs  only  to  God." 
She  thought  the  wound  must  need  tending  again, 
and  returned  to  the  bed.  The  patient,  meanwhile, 
went  in  and  out  of  the  mazes  of  unconsciousness 
caused  by  weakness. 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  51 

"  Was  that  really  he  on  this  foamy  bed  ?  What 
a  blotch  his  camp-battered  body  made  down  the 
centre  of  it !  It  was  good  to  be  on  a  bed  once 
more,  to  look  up  into  a  mosquito-bar  instead  of 
the  boughs  of  trees,  to  feel  his  head  on  a  pillow. 
But  why  did  they  put  him  there  ?  Why  did  they 
not  lay  him  somewhere  on  the  floor,  outside  on 
the  ground,  instead  of  soiling  and  crumpling  this 
lily-white  surface?" 

He  could  observe  his  nurse  through  his  half- 
closed  lids,  which  fell  as  she  approached  the  bed, 
and  closed  tight  as  she  bent  above  him.  When 
she  stood  at  the  window  he  could  look  full  at  her. 
"  How  innocent  and  unsuspecting  she  looked  !" 
The  strained  rigidity  had  passed  away  from  her 
face.  Her  transparent,  child-like  eyes  were  look- 
ing with  all  their  life  of  expression  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  bed,  and  then  at  something  passing  in 
her  own  mind.  "  Thank  Heaven,  the  fright  had 
all  gone  out  of  them  !  How  horrible  for  a  gentle- 
man to  read  fear  in  the  eyes  of  a  woman  !  Her 
mind  must  be  as  pure  and  white,  yes,  and  as  im- 
pressionable, too,  as  her  bed.  Did  his  presence  lie 
like  a  blot  upon  it  also  ?  How  she  must  hate 
him !  how  she  must  loathe  him  !  Would  it  have 
been  different  if  he  had  come  in  the  other  uniform 
— if  he  had  worn  the  gray  ?  would  she  then  have 
cared  for  him,  have  administered  to  him  ?  How 
slight  and  frail  she  was  !  What  a  wan,  wistful 
little  face  between  him  and  the  gloomy  old  bayou  ! 


52  BAYOU    l'oMBRE. 

He  could  see  her  more  plainly  now  since  she  had 
opened  the  window  and  let  in  the  cool,  fragrant 
air.  There  was  no  joyous  development  of  the 
body  in  her  to  proclaim  womanhood,  none  of  the 
seductive,  confident  beauty  that  follows  corona- 
tion of  youth  ;  to  her  had  only  come  the  care  and 
anxiety  of  maturity.  This — this,'"  he  exclaimed 
to  himself,  "  is  the  way  women  fight  a  war."  Was 
she  coming  this  way  .''  Yes.  To  the  bed  ?  Hard- 
ly. Now  she  was  pressing  against  it,  now  bend- 
ing over  him,  now  dropping  a  cooling  dew  from 
heaven  on  his  burning  arm,  and  now — oh,  why  so 
soon  ? — she  was  going  away  to  stand  and  look 
out  of  the  window  again. 

The  homely  little  room  was  filled  with  femi- 
nine subterfuges  for  ornament,  feminine  substi- 
tutes for  comfort.  How  simple  women  are  !  how 
little  they  require,  after  all !  only  peace  and  love 
and  quiet,  only  the  impossible  in  a  masculine 
world.  What  was  she  thinking  of  ?  If  he  could 
only  have  seen  the  expression  of  her  eyes  as  she 
bent  over  him  !  Suppose  he  should  open  his  and 
look  straight  up  at  her  ?  but  no,  he  had  not  the 
courage  to  frighten  her  again.  He  transplanted 
her  in  his  mind  to  other  surroundings,  her  proper 
surroundings  by  birthright,  gave  her  in  abun- 
dance all  of  which  this  war  had  deprived  her, 
presented  to  her  assiduous  courtiers,  not  reckless 
soldiers  like  himself,  but  men  whom  peace  had 
guided  in  the  lofty  sphere  of  intellectual  pursuits. 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  53 

He  held  before  her  the  sweet  invitations  of  youth, 
the  consummations  of  Hfe.  He  made  her  smile, 
laugh. 

"  Ah  !" — he  turned  his  face  against  the  pillow 
— "had  that  sad  face  ever  laughed?  Could  any 
woman  laugh  during  a  war  ?  Could  any  triumph, 
however  glorious,  atone  for  battles  that  gave  men 
death,  but  left  the  women  to  live  ?  This  was  only 
one;  how  many,  wan  and  silent  as  she,  were  look- 
ing at  this  sunset — the  sunset  not  of  a  day,  but 
a  life  ?  \Mien  it  was  all  over,  who  was  to  make 
restitution  to  them,  the  women  ?  Was  any  cost 
too  great  to  repurchase  for  them  simply  the  privi- 
lege of  hoping  again  ?  What  an  endless  chain  of 
accusing  thoughts  !  What  a  miserable  conviction 
tearing  his  heart !  If  he  could  get  on  his  knees  to 
her,  if  he  could  kiss  her  feet,  if  he  could  beg  par- 
don in  the  dust — he,  a  man  for  all  men,  of  her,  a 
woman  for  all  women.  If  he  could  make  her  his 
country,  not  to  fight,  but  to  work  for,  it  .  .  ." 

She  came  to  his  side  again,  she  bent  over  him, 
she  touched  him. 

Impulsive,  thoughtless,  hot-headed,  he  opened 
his  eyes  full,  he  forgot  again  the  wounded  arm. 
With  both  hands  he  stayed  her  frightened  start;  he 
saw  the  expression  of  her  eyes  bending  over  him. 

"  Can  you  forgive  me  .''  It  is  a  heartless,  cow- 
ardly trick  !  I  am  not  a  Yankee  ;  I  am  Beau, 
your  cousin,  the  guerilla." 

The  door  of  the  smoke-house  opened,  the  es- 


54 


BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 


caped  soldiers  ran  like  deer  between  the  furrows 
of  Uncle  John's  vegetable  garden,  where  the  wav- 
ing corn  leaves  could  screen  them ;  then  out  to 
the  bank  of  the  bayou — not  on  the  levee,  but  close 
against  the  fence  —  snagging  their  clothes  and 
scratching  their  faces  and  hands  on  the  cuckle- 
burs ;  Lolotte  in  front,  with  a  stick  in  her  hand, 
beating  the  bushes  through  habit  to  frighten  the 
snakes,  calling,  directing,  animating,  in  excited 
whispers ;  Regina  in  the  rear,  urging,  pressing, 
sustaining  the  young  soldier  lagging  behind,  but 
painfully  striving  with  stiffened  limbs  to  keep  up 
with  the  pace  of  his  older,  more  vigorous  compan- 
ions. Ahead  of  them  Black  Maria  was  steadily 
keeping  the  skiff  out  in  the  current.  The  bayou 
narrowed  and  grew  dark  as  it  entered  between 
the  banks  of  serried  cypress- trees,  where  night 
had  already  begun. 

Regina  looked  hurriedly  over  her  shoulder. 
"  Had  they  found  out  yet  at  the  house }  How 
slowly  she  ran  !  How  long  it  took  to  get  to  the 
woods  !  Oh,  they  would  have  time  over  and  over 
again  to  finish  their  dinner  and  catch  them.  Per- 
haps at  this  very  moment,  as  she  was  thinking  of  it, 
some  forgotten  article  in  the  skiff  was  betraying 
them  !  Perhaps  a  gun  might  even  now  be  point- 
ing down  their  path  !  Or,  now !  the  bullet  could 
start  and  the  report  come  too  late  to  warn 
them." 

She  looked  back  again  and  again. 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  55 

From  the  little  cottage  under  the  trees  the 
curtains  fluttered,  but  no  bayonet  nor  smooth-bore 
was  visible. 

She  met  her  companion's  face,  looking  back 
also,  but  not  for  guns — for  her.  "  If  it  had  been 
different !  If  he  had  been  a  visitor,  come  to  stay ; 
days  and  evenings  to  be  passed  together !"  The 
thought  lifting  the  sulphurous  war-clouds  from  her 
heart,  primitive  idyls  burst  into  instantaneous  fra- 
grant bloom  in  it  like  spring  violets.  He  was  not 
only  the  first  soldier  in  gray  she  had  ever  seen, 
but  the  first  young  man ;  or  it  seemed  so  to  her. 

Again  she  looked  back. 

"  How  near  they  were  still  to  the  house  !  how 
plainly  they  could  yet  be  seen  !  He  could  be 
shot  straight  through  the  back,  the  gray  jacket 
getting  one  stain,  one  bullet-hole,  more,  the  coun- 
try one  soldier  less.  Would  they  shoot  through 
a  woman  at  him  ?  Would  they  be  able  to  sepa- 
rate them  if  she  ran  close  behind  him,  moving 
this  way  and  that  way,  exactly  as  he  did  .''  If  she 
saw  them  in  time  she  could  warn  him ;  he  could 
lie  flat  down  in  the  grass;  then  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  hit  him." 

Increasing  and  narrowing  the  space  between 
them  at  the  best  of  each  succeeding  contradic- 
tory thought,  turning  her  head  again  and  again 
to  the  house  behind  her,  she  lost  speed.  Lolotte 
and  the  two  men  had  already  entered  the  forest 
before  she  reached  it.     Coming  from  the  fields, 


56  BAYOU    l'oMBRE. 

the  swamps  seemed  midnight  dark.  Catching  her 
companion's  hand,  they  groped  their  way  along, 
tripped  by  the  slimy  cypress  knees  that  rose  like 
evil  gnomes  to  beset  and  entangle  their  feet, 
slipping  over  rolling  logs,  sinking  in  stagnant  mire, 
noosed  by  the  coils  of  heavy  vines  that  dropped 
from  unseen  branches  overhead.  Invisible  wings 
of  startled  birds  flapped  above  them,  the  croak- 
ing of  frogs  ebbed  and  flowed  around  them,  owls 
shrieked  and  screamed  from  side  to  side  of  the 
bayou.  Lolotte  had  ceased  her  beating ;  swamp 
serpents  are  too  sluggish  to  be  frightened  away. 
In  the  obscurity,  Black  Maria  could  be  dimly 
seen  turning  the  skiff  to  a  half-submerged  log, 
from  which  a  turtle  dropped  as  if  ballasted  with 
lead.  A  giant  cypress -tree  arrested  them;  the 
smooth,  fluted  trunk,  ringed  with  whitish  water- 
marks, recording  floods  far  over  their  heads ; 
where  they  were  scrambling  once  swam  fish  and 
serpents.  The  young  soldier  turned  and  faced 
her,  the  deliverer,  whose  manoeuvres  in  the  open 
field  had  not  escaped  him. 

She  had  saved  him  from  imprisonment,  insult, 
perhaps  death — the  only  heir  of  a  heroic  father, 
the  only  son  of  a  widowed  mother ;  she  had  re- 
stored him  to  a  precious  heritage  of  love  and 
honor,  replaced  him  in  the  interrupted  ambitious 
career  of  patriotic  duty ;  she  had  exposed  her  life 
for  him — she  was  beautiful.  She  stood  before 
him,  panting,  tremulous,  ardent,  with  dumb,  open 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  57 

red  lips,  and  voluble,  passionate  eyes,  and  with  a 
long  scratch  in  her  white  cheek  from  which  the 
blood  trickled.  She  had  much  to  say  to  him,  her 
gray  uniformed  hero  ;  but  how  in  one  moment 
express  four  years — four  long  years — and  the  last 
long  minutes.  The  words  were  all  there,  had  been 
rushing  to  her  lips  all  day  ;  her  lips  were  parted  ; 
but  the  eager,  overcrowded  throng  were  jammed 
on  the  threshold ;  and  her  heart  beat  so  in  her 
ears  !  He  could  not  talk  ;  he  could  not  explain. 
His  companions  were  already  in  the  boat,  his  ene- 
mies still  in  gunshot.  He  bent  his  face  to  hers  in 
the  dim  light  to  learn  by  heart  the  features  he  must 
never  forget — closer,  closer,  learning,  knowing 
more  and  more,  with  the  eager  precocity  of  youth. 

Bellona  must  have  flown  disgusted  away  with 
the  wings  of  an  owl,.  Columbia  might  have  nod- 
ded her  head  as  knowingly  as  old  Aunt  Mary 
could,  when  the  callow  hearts,  learning  and  know- 
ing, brought  the  faces  closer  and  closer  together, 
until  the  lips  touched. 

"  I  shall  come  again  ;  I  shall  come  again.  Wait 
for  me.     Surely  I  shall  come  again," 

"Yes!     Yes!" 

Black  Maria  pushed  the  skiff  off.  "  Rowlock ! 
Rowlock  !"     They  were  safe  and  away. 

A  vociferous  group  stood  around  the  empty 
gunnels.  Uncle  John,  with  the  daring  of  despera- 
tion, advanced,  disarmed  as  he  was,  towards  them. 


58  BAYOU    L  OMBRE. 

"  I-I-I-I  don't  keer  ef  you  is  de-de-de  President 
o'  de  United  States  hisself,  I  ain't  gwine  to  'low  no 
such  cussin'  an'  swearin'  in  de  hearin'  o'  de-de-de 
young  ladies.  Marse  John  he-he-he  don't  'low  it, 
and  when  Marse  John  ain't  here  I-I-I  don't  'low  it." 

His  remonstrance  and  heroic  attitude  had  very 
little  effect,  for  the  loud  talk  went  on,  and  chiefly 
by  ejaculation,  imprecation,  and  self-accusation 
published  the  whole  statement  of  the  case ;  under- 
standing which.  Uncle  John  added  his  voice  also: 

"  Good  Gord  A'mighty  !  Wh-wh-what's  dat  you 
say  ?  Dey — dey — dey  Yankees,  an'  you  Cornfed- 
rits  ?  Well,  sir,  an'  are  you  Marse  Beau — you  wid 
your  arm  hurted  ?  Go  'long  !  You  can't  fool  me  ; 
Marse  Beau  done  had  more  sense  en  dat.  My 
Gord  !  an'  dey  wuz  Yankees  ?  You  better  cuss — 
cussin's  about  all  you  kin  do  now.  Course  de 
boat's  gone.  You'll  never  ketch  up  wid  'em  in 
Gord's  world  now.  Don't  come  along  arter  me 
about  it .'  'Tain't  my  fault.  How  wuz  I  to  know  ? 
You  wuz  Yankees  enough  for  me.  I  declar', 
Marse  Beau,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  o'  your- 
self !  You  wanted  to  I'arn  dem  a  lesson  !  I  reck- 
on dey  I'arnt  you  one  !  You  didn't  mean  'em  no 
harm  !  Humph  !  dey've  cut  dey  eye-teeth,  dey 
have !  Lord !  Marse  Beau,  I  thought  you  done 
knowed  us  better.  Did  you  really  think  we  wuz 
a-gwine  to  let  a  passel  o'  Yankees  take  us  away 
off  our  own  plantation }  You  must  done  forgot 
us.    We  jes  cleaned  out  de  house  for  'em,  we  did 


AN    INCIDENT    OF    THE    WAR.  59 

— clo'es,  food,  tobacco,  rum.     De  young  ladies 
'ain't  lef  a  mossel  for  Marse  John.     An' — an' — 
an'  'fore  de  good  Gord,  my  gun  !     Done  tuck  my 
gun  away  wid  'em !     Wh-wh-wh-what  you  mean 
by  such  doin's  ?     L-l-look  here,  Marse   Beau,  I 
don't  like  dat,  nohow  !     Wh-wh-what !  you  tuck 
my  gun  and  gin  it  to  de  Yankees  ?     Dat's  my 
gun !     I  done  had  dat  gun  twenty-five  year  an' 
more  !     Dog-gone  !     Yes,  sir,  I'll  cuss — I'll  cuss 
ef  I  wants  to  !     I  'ain't  got  no  use  for  gorillas, 
nohow  !     Lem  me  'lone,  I  tell  you  !  lem  me  'lone  ! 
Marse  John  he'll  get  de  law  o'  dat !    Who's  'spon- 
sible ?     Dat's  all  I  want  to  know — who's  'sponsi- 
ble ?     Ef-ef-ef-ef—     No,  sir  ;  dar  ain't  nary  boat 
on  de  place,  nor  hereabouts.     Yes,  sir;  you  kin 
cross  de  swamp  ef  you  kin  find  de  way.     No,  sir 
— no,  sir;  dar  ain't  no  one  to  show  you.     I  ain't 
gwine  to  leave  de  young  ladies  twell  Marse  John 
he  comes  back.     Yes,  I  reckon  you  kin  git  to  de 
cut-off  by  to-morrow  mornin',  ef  you  ain't  shot  on 
de  way  for  Yankees,  an'  ef  your  company  is  fool 
enough  to  wait  for  you.     No,  sir,  I  don't  know 
nothin'  'bout  nothin' ;  you  better  wait   an'  arsk 
Marse  John.  ...   My  Gord!    I'm   obleeged  to 
laugh ;  I  can't  help  it.     Dem  fool  nigger  wimen 
a-sittin'  on  de  brink  o'  de  byer,  dey  clo'es  tied  up 
in  de  bedquilts,  an'  de  shotes  an'  de  puUits  all 
kilt,  a-waitin'  for  freedom  !     I  lay  dey' 11  git  free- 
dom enough  to-night  when  de  boys  come  home. 
Dey  git  white  gentlemen  to  marry  'em !     Dey'll 


60  BAYOU    L'OMBRE. 

git  five  hundred  apiece.  Marse  Beau,  Gord  '11 
punish  you  for  dis— He  surely  will.  I  done  tole 
Marse  John  long  time  ago  he  oughter  sell  dat 
brazen  nigger  Dead-arm  Harriet,  an'  git  shet  o' 
her.  Lord  !  Lord  !  Lord  !  Now  you  done  gone 
to  cussin'  an'  swearin'  agin.  Don't  go  tearin'  off 
your  jackets  an'  flingin'  em  at  me.  We  don't 
want  'em ;  we  buys  our  clo'es — what  we  don't 
make.  Yes,  Marse  John  '11  be  comin'  along  pret- 
ty soon  now.  What's  your  hurry,  Marse  Beau  .-• 
Well,  so  long,  ef  you  won't  stay.  He  ain't  got 
much  use  for  gorillas  neither,  Marse  John  hain't." 

The  young  officer  wrote  a  few  hasty  words  on 
a  leaf  torn  from  the  pretty  Russia-leather  note- 
book, and  handed  it  to  the  old  darky.  "  For 
your  Marse  John." 

"For  Marse  John — yes,  sir;  I'll  gin  hit  to  him 
soon  's  he  comes  in." 

They  had  dejectedly  commenced  their  weary 
tramp  up  the  bayou ;  he  called  him  back,  and 
lowered  his  voice  confidentially :  "  Marse  Beau, 
when  you  captured  dat  transport  and  stole  all 
dem  fixin's  an'  finery,  you  didn't  see  no  good 
chawin'  tobacco  layin'  round  loose,  did  you? 
Thanky!  thanky,  child!  Now  I  looks  good  at 
you,  you  ain't  so  much  changed  sence  de  times 
Marse  John  used  to  wallop  you  for  your  tricks. 
Well,  good-bye,  Marse  Beau." 

On  the  leaf  were  scrawled  the  words  : 

".All's  up  !     Lee  has  surrendered. — Beau." 


BONNE   MAMAN. 


BONNE   MAMAN. 

>T  was  in  a  part  of  the  city  once 
truthfully,  now  conventionally,  called 
"back  of  town,"  and  it  had  been 
used  as  an  obscure  corner  in  which 
to  thrust  domestic  hearths  not  cred- 
itable to  the  respectability  assumed  in  the  front 
part  of  town  ;  where  oil-lamps  could  be  econom- 
ically substituted  for  gas,  and  police  indifference 
for  police  protection. 

The  long  rows  of  tallow- trees,  with  here  and 
there  an  oak,  shaded  an  unpaved  street  and  a 
seemingly  unbroken  continuity  of  low  cottages, 
with  heavy  green  doors  and  windows  and  little 
wooden  steps  jutting  out  on  to  the  banquette. 
Their  homely  architectural  physiognomies  were 
adapted  to  such  an  isolated,  dimly-lighted  locality, 
and  were  frankly  devoid  of  any  beauty  or  pictu- 
resqueness  of  expression.  But  as  the  banquette, 
wrinkled  and  corrugated  from  the  roots  beneath, 
retarded  the  steps  of  the  passer-by,  faintly  as- 
serting individualities  might  be  discerned  :  de- 
clensions of  one -storied  degrees  of  prosperity, 
comparisons  of  industry  and  cleanliness,  and  pre- 


64  BONNE    MAMAN. 

tensions  to  social  precedence  inherited  from  the 
architect  of  a  centnry  ago,  or  acquired,  perhaps, 
by  the  thrift  of  a  present  tenant.  The  steps 
were  all  scrubbed  red  with  brick,  or  yellow  with 
wild  camomile,  which,  besides  gilding,  lent  them 
a  pleasant  aromatic  fragrance. 

The  quiet  that  reigned  told  that  the  street  was 
still  back  of  town  in  all  that  a  corporation  sug- 
gests of  movement,  bustle,  and  noise.  The  air 
of  desertion  which  hung  about  the  little  closed 
cottages  would  have  been  oppressive  had  it  not 
been  for  the  children  —  a  motley  crowd,  accus- 
ing an  "  olla  podrida  "  parentage,  chattering  in 
tongues  as  varied  as  their  complexions,  and  rest- 
less with  the  competing  energies  of  hidden  na- 
tionalities in  their  veins.  Dressed  with  tropical 
disregard  of  conventionality,  they  were  frank,  im- 
pudent, irrepressible  ;  at  all  times  noisy  and  unan- 
imous, swooping  down  the  street  at  any  moment 
in  eager  response  to  some  distant  alarm,  or  tak- 
ing swarming  possession  of  whole  rows  of  steps 
with  perfect  disregard  of  any  superior  proprietary 
right. 

The  delusive  similarity  of  the  blocks  would  in 
time  generate  in  the  passer-by  the  suspicion  of  a 
treadmill  under  foot,  did  not  the  sharp  point  of 
a  triangular  enclosure  furnish  a  landmark  in  the 
region  by  cutting  into  the  very  middle  of  the 
street,  parting  the  hitherto  companion  banquettes, 
and  sending  them  on  at  divergent  angles  in  ever- 


BONNE    MAMAN.  65 

increasing  separation,  until  they  were  finally  ar- 
rested at  unrecognizable  distances  apart  by  the 
banks  of  the  bayou.  The  fence  of  this  obtruding 
property  may  have  been  painted  in  front  on  the 
other  street,  but  to  its  apex  it  degenerated  through 
every  stage  of  shabbiness  and  neglect.  For  a 
screen  the  large  square  house  inside  was  mostly 
indebted  to  a  hedge  of  orange-trees,  which,  raising 
their  heads  proudly  in  the  sun,  illuminated  the 
ugly  spot  with  their  golden  fruit  in  the  winter, 
and  sanctified  it  in  the  spring  with  their  blossoms. 
The  shaded  banquettes  along  the  sides  of  the 
triangle  were  a  constant  temptation  to  the  chil- 
dren, alluring  them,  against  experience,  into  the 
range  of  the  epithets  and  missiles  of  the  children- 
hating  people  within. 

"  AUez-vous-en  !" 

"  Pestes  de  la  terre  !" 

"  Negrillons  !" 

"Gamins  !" 

"  Tits  demons  !" 

"  Enfants  du  diable  !" 

The  loss  of  a  knot  from  one  of  the  boards  of 
the  fence  furnished  a  providential  peep-hole  into 
the  mysteries  of  a  "  menage  "  from  which  abnor- 
mal discoveries  seemed  constantly  expected  by 
the  children,  and  if  persistence  of  attention  could 
have  been  relied  upon,  warnings  might  always 
have  been  given  for  timely  refuge  on  the  steps  of 
the  nearest  little  corner  cottage.    These  offered  an 


66  BONNE    MAMAN. 

ideal  juvenile  place  of  refuge,  where  there  were 
no  brick  or  camomile  scrubbings  to  rebuke  their 
litter,  no  sudden  front -door  openings  to  sweep 
them  away  in  confusion,  no  front-window  admo- 
nitions or  imprecations  to  disturb  them,  and  ab- 
solutely no  banquette  ordinances  to  taunt  them 
into  wilfulness,  but  instead  an  upward  glance 
through  the  small  opening  of  the  bowed  shutters 
showed  them  the  face  of  "  la  blanche  mamzelle 
la-ye  "  at  her  sewing. 

They  were  too  young  to  appreciate  the  fact  that 
the  batten  windows  were  bowed  only  when  they 
were  there,  or  to  wonder  why  they,  the  children, 
were  the  only  ones  who  ever  saw  her ;  but  they 
did  know  that  her  face  was  whiter,  her  hair 
straighter  and  finer,  than  human  comparison  for 
them,  and  so  they  could  not  keep  their  eyes  from 
looking  for  responses  from  hers,  nor  their  lips 
from  smiling  invitingly  at  hers,  nor  their  tongues 
from  sallies  of  wit  intended  for  her  ear  alone. 
To-day  she  paid  little  attention  to  them.  They 
could  hear  her  "  Miseres  !"  of  impatience,  and  the 
vexatious  tapping  of  her  foot,  though  they  could 
not  see  that  she  was  manipulating  some  gaudy 
woollen  material  which  gave  her  infinite  worry  with 
its  ungracious,  not  to  say  stubborn,  opposition  to 
a  necessity  which  ordered  its  stripes  to  go  flounc- 
ing in  diagonal  procession  round  and  round  a  skirt. 

"  Claire  !"  called  a  feeble  voice  from  the  back 
room. 


BONNE    MAMAN.  67 

She  raised  her  head  incredulously. 

"  Claire  !  Claire  Blanche  !" 

A  shade  of  disappointment  passed  over  her  face. 

"  Bonne  maman  !" 

"  Mais,  Claire,  fillette,  where  are  you  ?" 

"  I  am  coming,  bonne  maman." 

She  caught  her  work  together  and  folded  it  in 
a  cloth  before  going  into  the  other  room. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  bebe  ?" 

"  But  my  work,  bonne  maman." 

"Ah  !  I  could  not  think  where  you  were." 

"  I  thought  it  was  cooler  in  the  other  room." 

"It  is  very  warm  in  here." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  get  up,  bonne  maman  ? 
You  have  not  finished  your  sleep  yet." 

"  Have  I  not  slept  as  long  as  usual?" 

"  No,  indeed  ;  only  a  few  minutes.  That  was 
the  reason  I  could  not  think  it  was  you  calling." 

"  Enfin,  it  is  better  for  me  to  get  up." 

"  But  why,  bonne  maman  .-'  There  is  no  ne- 
cessity for  you  to  get  up  earlier  to-day  than  usual." 

"As  you  say,  it  is  warm  here." 

The  old  lady  lay  on  her  bed  underneath  the 
mosquito  bar,  the  straight  folds  of  her  white 
"  blouse  volante  "  settled  around  her  thin  figure. 
Claire  picked  up  a  fan,  and  putting  back  the 
bar,  commenced  to  fan  her. 

"  Chere,  bonne  maman,  try.  Maybe  you  can 
sleep  some  more." 

The  coaxing,  caressing  voice  and  the  soft  mo- 


68  BONNE    MAMAN. 

tions  of  the  fan  had  a  soothing  effect,  and  al- 
though the  grandmother  repeated,  "  Yes,  decided- 
ly I  had  better  get  up,"  she  made  no  effort  to  move. 

"  The  weather  is  so  warm  and  tiresome,"  con- 
tinued the  girl,  suggesting  an  excuse  for  lethargy. 

"Yes,  as  you  sa}',  it  is  warm  and  debilitating." 

"  But,  just  shut  your  eyes,  bonne  maman,  and 
try  to  sleep.     You  have  not  rested  at  all." 

"  Rest,"  she  said,  catching  the  word.  "  I  do 
not  need  rest ;  I  have  worked  very  little  to-day — 
in  fact,  not  at  all." 

"  Oh,  but  I  mean  rest  from  thinking.  Mon 
Dieu  !  if  I  thought  as  much  as  you,  I  could  not 
keep  my  eyes  open  at  all." 

The  grandmother  turned  her  head  on  the  pil- 
low, and  did  close  her  eyes. 

Claire  smiled  with  satisfaction.  Her  bright 
face  showed  the  reflection  of  cheerful  interpreta- 
tions alone,  and  her  quick  eyes,  glancing  over  the 
surface  of  things,  gathered  only  pleasant  sights. 
She  was  going  on  tiptoe  out  of  the  room. 

"Why  do  you  not  bring  your  work  in  here, 
Claire,  where  I  am  ?" 

"  What,  not  asleep  ?     Vilaine  !" 

"  But,  my  child,  how  you  talk !  Sleep  ?  when  I 
have  so  much  to  finish  !" 

"  Oh,  there  is  plenty  of  time  for  that,  bonne 
maman.     At  least  stay  in  bed  a  little  longer." 

"  One  would  suppose  that  I  was  the  grandchild 
and  you  the  bonne  maman." 


BONNE    MAMAN.  69 

Claire  brought  her  work ;  not  the  gaudy  stripes, 
but  a  piece  of  embroidery,  and  seated  herself  at 
some  distance  from  the  bed,  in  the  path  of  a  ray 
of  light. 

The  old  lady  sighed  heavily;  her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  Claire. 

"But  what  is  the  matter,  bonne  maman?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing,  cherie — only,  what  makes 
you  stoop  so,  Claire  ?" 

"  Ah,  that  ugly  habit !  Imbecile  !"— slapping 
her  forehead — "  can't  you  cure  yourself,  enfin  ?  I 
ought  to  be  well  tapped  for  it,  as  I  was  at  the  con- 
vent." 

She  straightened  herself  up  to  an  uncomfort- 
able degree  of  rectitude,  which  lasted  as  long  as 
the  remembrance  of  her  grandmother's  sigh,  and 
she  talked  as  if  her  needle  could  only  move  in 
unison  with  her  tongue. 

"  It  was  funny  at  the  convent  how  many  bad 
habits  I  had.  They  seemed  to  grow  on  purpose 
to  be  corrected.  And  I  was  so  young,  too.  Bad 
mark  for  this,  en  penitence  for  that,  fool's-cap  for 
something  else,  twenty -five  lines  by  heart  for 
something  else.  And  all  the  time,  '  Your  grand- 
mother never  did  this,'  'Your  mother  never  did 
that,'  '  Ah,  if  you  had  seen  your  tante  Stephanie,' 
'  Look  at  your  cousin  Adelaide.'  Ma  foi !  the 
first  lesson  I  learned  was  that  I  was  like  no 
member  of  my  family  seen  before.  How  I  used 
to  wish  there  had  been  just  one  lazy  bad  one 


70  BONNE    MAMAN. 

like  me  !  Was  it  that  way  when  you  were  there, 
bonne  maman  ?" 

The  old  lady  did  not  answer,  but  Claire  showed 
no  hesitation  in  summoning  her  thoughts  from 
any  pleasanter  dallying  ground. 

"  Hein,  bonne  maman  ?" 

"  What,  Claire  ?" 

"  At  the  convent,  was  it  that  way  with  you  ? 
Always  scolding  you  because  you  were  not  some 
one  else,  always  punishing  you  because  you  were 
what  you  were  ?  That  was  justice  !  And  then  to 
tell  me  I  was  lazy  and  could  not  learn  !  It  en- 
rages me  every  time  I  think  of  it.  I  am  sure  I 
learned  very  nearly  the  whole  of  the  Genie  da 
Christiaiiisme  in  punishment.  It  was  killing. 
Study!  When  I  was  thinking  all  the  time  about 
something  else,  straining  my  ears  to  listen,  just 
to  see  if  I  could  hear  the  cannon  shooting  'way 
out  there  in  the  distance." 

She  heard  another  sigh,  and  raised  her  shoul- 
ders with  a  start. 

"  Pardon,  bonne  maman  !  I  forget.  You  will 
see  I  can  cure  myself.  Oh  !  I  can  do  anything  I 
want  except  be  pious,  as  they  wanted  me  to  be  at 
the  convent.  Ha  !  it  was  very  easy  for  the  Sis- 
ters to  say  '  Study  history  !'  '  Study  geography  !' 
and  stick  La  Vie  des  Saints  before  me.  Saints  ! 
It  was  '  ces  diables  de  I'enfer '  out  there  shooting 
their  cannons  that  I  was  thinking  of!  Books  !  I 
hated  books,  and  pen  and  ink  and  paper  make 


BONNE   MAMAN.  71 

me  ill  to  this  day;  but  I  could  embroider;  that 
didn't  prevent  listening  and  thinking.  I  was  only 
pious  when  the  mail  came  in.  When  I  remember 
those  days,  mon  Dieu  Seigneur !  but  we  were 
frightened  then  !  Oh,  how  we  loved  God  and  the 
saints  then  !  and  how  we  used  to  pray  to  them, 
fast,  fast,  fast  as  we  could,  before  the  letters  were 
brought  around  !  Getting  a  letter  meant  almost 
just  the  same  thing  as  killing  some  one  in  our 
family.     Those  were  times — eh,  bonne  maman  ?" 

"  Bonne  maman  !" 

"Fillettel" 

"  But,  bonne  maman,  you  don't  listen  to  me, 
you  don't  answer  me." 

"  But,  ma  petite,  I  thought  you  wanted  me  to 
go  to  sleep?" 

"Ah,  were  you  going  to  sleep?  And  I  woke 
you  ?     What  a  fool  I  am  !" 

"  What  were  you  talking  about,  my  daughter  ? 
I  will  listen  now." 

"  Ah,  no,  bonne  maman,  don't  listen  to  me,  I 
am  so  silly;  indeed,  I  am  not  worth  listening  to. 
Try  to  go  to  sleep  again.  To  think  that  I  woke 
you,  when  I  wanted  you  so  much  to  sleep  !  I  be- 
lieve the  Sisters  at  the  convent  were  right.  I 
shall  never  have  any  sense — never;  only  strength. 
Ah,  yes  !  they  told  me  that  often  enough,  and 
tried  to  shame  me  by  pointing  to  the  good  girls 
— the  good,  weak  girls.  Anyhow,"  shrugging  her 
shoulders,  "goodness  doesn't  stand  a  convent 


72  BONNE    MAMAN. 

and  war  as  well  as  badness.  Ma  cliere !  when  I 
left  there  you  would  have  said  that  a  battle  had 
been  fought  in  the  dormitory,  with  the  guns  loaded 
with  fevers,  and  all  aimed  at  the  good  girls.  Only 
the  fool's-cap  wearers  escaped.  The  little  ceme- 
tery was  full,  full,  full,  and  the  graves  so  even  and 
regular,  all  of  one  size,  like  a  patchwork  quilt 
spread  out  inside  the  four  fences." 

"  Now,  Claire,  I  shall  get  up." 

"  You  see,  if  it  had  not  been  for  me  you  would 
have  been  sleeping;  and  it  is  so  hot  and  tiresome 
to-day." 

Her  grandmother  sat  up  in  bed. 

"  Just  to  give  me  pleasure,  bonne  maman,  stay 
quiet  a  moment  longer." 

"  To  give  you  jDleasure — ah,  well,  if  it  gives  you 
pleasure  !"  and  she  reclined  again. 

"Claire!" 

*'  Oh,  bonne  maman,  I  forget  " — sitting  up  with 
innocent  egoism. 

"  Claire,  I  was  thinking  I  would  like  to  see  my 
little  green  work-table  again." 

"Ah,  that  was  what  you  were  thinking,  eh  .-'  I 
thought  it  was  about  my  shoulders." 

"  My  little  green  work-table,"  the  old  lady  re- 
peated to  herself. 

"  Which  stood  in  the  window  of  your  room,  that 
looked  on  to  the  gallery,  over  the  orange-trees, 
over  the  levee,  into  the  river — " 

"  To  think  I  should  forget  it  until  to-day  !    To 


BONNE    MAMAN.  73 

think  I  could  forget  it ! — my  little  green  work- 
table." 

"  But,  bonne  maman,  you  have  so  much  to  for- 
get!" 

"  But  that  was  my  '  corbeille  de  noces,'  ordered 
from  Gessler,  in  Paris.  A  corbeille  de  noces  !" 
talking  more  to  herself  than  to  the  girl.  "  How 
much  that  means  !  I  can  see  the  very  day,  the 
very  hour,  it  came.  First,  my  vexation  and  dis- 
appointment ;  there  were  tears  in  my  eyes ;  it 
was  so  'bourgeoise,'  a  work-table,  with  nothing 
but  scissors  and  threads  and  needles,  instead  of 
orange  flowers  and  lace  and  fans  and  sentiment. 
Eh,  mon  Seigneur !  what  ideas  I  had  !  But  Aza 
was  there  !  What  a  devil  Aza  was  !  impertinent, 
pushing,  and  perfectly  fearless.  I  was  the  only 
one  who  could  manage  her.  They  said  I  had 
spoiled  her>  but  she  adored  me  more  than  she  did 
God,  and  was  more  afraid  of  displeasing  me,  too. 
She  followed  me  around  like  a  little  dog.  I  never 
could  put  my  hand  out,  so,  without  touching 
Aza." 

Claire  nodded  attention,  as  her  fingers  flew 
backward  and  forward  about  her  work. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  and  the  soft  feeble  voice 
sounded  very  plaintive — "  it  seems  to  me  that  all 
the  bright  hopes  that  used  to  fly  before  me,  they 
fly  behind  me  now  as  memories." 

"Well,  of  course  that  is  natural,"  the  girl  an- 
swered cheerfully.     "  We  are  two  crabs,  you  and 


74  BONNE    MAMAN. 

I  —  we  walk  backward.  We  couldn't  see  any- 
thing going  on  before  us,  par  exemple." 

"  But,  Claire,  I  keep  forgetting.  I  must  get  up 
and  finish  that  embroidery." 

"Oh,  just  one  moment,  bonne  maman  —  just 
one  moment  more." 

"  It  must  be  finished  and  returned  this  even- 
ing." 

The  needle  sped  faster  and  faster,  and  the 
soothing  words  fell  more  and  more  disconnect- 
edly. 

"Go  and  fetch  it  to  me,  Claire." 

"Yes,  bonne  maman." 

"  Indeed  I  feel  quite  refreshed." 

"  Dieu  merci !"  muttered  the  girl,  and  reckless- 
ly added,  "  Vogue  la  galere  !" 

The  grandmother  got  very  slowly  out  of  the 
bed  and  walked  to  her  rocking-chair, 

"  It  is  in  the  basket  there  on  the  mantel- 
piece." 

Claire  went  for  the  basket,  and  slipped  the  roll 
of  embroidery  she  held  into  it. 

"  Here  it  is,  bonne  maman." 

"Ah  !  mais,  this  is  not  my  embroidery." 

"  Si,  it  is  your  embroidery,  bonne  maman." 

"  No,  my  child,  you  have  made  a  mistake,  and 
put  yours  in  my  basket.  Look  again,  and  give 
me  mine,  chere." 

Claire  turned  her  head  away,  that  her  face 
might  not  discredit  her  voluble  tongue. 


BONNE    MAMAN.  75 

"  But  I  tell  you  that  is  your  embroidery,  bonne 
maman." 

"  My  embroidery  !  Claire,  how  can  you  say  so  ? 
Come  and  convince  yourself.  See  !  this  is  all 
done ;  and  mine — there  was  a  good  piece  to  do 
still." 

"  But—" 

"  A — h  !  I  see  !  Claire,  it  is  you  who  have  fin- 
ished it  for  me." 

"  Eh,  why  not  ?  I  had  already  finished  mine, 
and  I  had  nothing  to  do  —  absolutely  nothing. 
Was  I  to  sit  still  and  hold  my  hands — hein  ?  Oh, 
you  need  not  examine  the  stitches  !  I  know  they 
are  not  so  fine,  nor  so  smooth,  nor  so  regular  as 
yours,  but  they  are  good  enough  for  that  old 
'  chouette  '  Varon  all  the  same,  and — " 

The  grandmother  jumped  violently  at  a  sud- 
den knock  at  the  door. 

"  Mais,  mon  Dieu  !  what  is  that  ?" 

"A  la  bonne  heure  !"  whispered  Claire  to  her- 
self. "  It  is  Betsie,  bonne  maman ;  I  will  see  what 
she  wants." 

"Ah,  that  Betsie!  she  is  so  badly  raised.  She 
knocks  at  the  door  as  if  she  were  a  Suisse.  Now, 
Aza — " 

Claire  had  already  left  the  room,  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her. 

"  Mamzelle,"  said  Betsy,  standing  on  the  step, 
"there's  that  nigger  out  there  come  for  her 
gownd." 


76  BONNE    MAMAN. 

"  Hush,  Betsie  !     Bonne  maman  is  awake," 

"  There's  some  frolic  going  on  to-night,  and 
she  has  set  her  heart  on  wearing  her  new 
gownd." 

"  But  it  is  not  finished." 

"That's  bad." 

"  I  was  still  sewing  on  it  when  bonne  maman 
awoke." 

"  I  suspicioned  you  hadn't  done  it,  and  I  tried 
my  best  to  send  her  away;  but.  Lord!  such  a 
contrairy,  obstreperous  nigger  like  that !" 

"  If  bonne  maman  had  only  slept  a  little  while 
longer—" 

"  You  couldn't  baste  it  up  any  sort  of  fashion, 
right  off,  and  let  her  go  ?" 

"  But  how  can  I,  Betsie  ?     Bonne  maman — " 

"  Couldn't  you  just  slip  out  in  the  kitchen  with 
it  ?  You  could  say  I  wanted  you  to  look  after 
the  soup  while  I  go  in  the  street  a  minute." 

"  Ha !  you  think  bonne  maman  would  not  go 
herself  to  see  to  it?" 

"That's  so  ;  the  madam  would  come  right  out 
there  herself.  But  that  gal  is  so  owdacious  and 
high-minded;  she  has  been  a-jawin'  out  there  for 
an  hour  constant,  and  I've  been  a-answering  her 
just  as  fair  as  I  could,  'cause  I  didn't  want  no 
fuss.  I  never  seen  anything  like  her  brazenness 
all  the  days  of  my  life.  A-driving  of  white  folks 
like  they  was  niggers.  .  .  .  Couldn't  you  say  I 
wanted  you  to  cut  a  josie  for  me .'"' 


BONNE    MAMAN. 


77 


"  She  would  tell  me  to  bring  it  to  her  to  cut. 
Bonne  maman  is  not  so  easy  to  fool,  Betsie." 

The  bright  sunlight  showed  lines  of  weariness 
and  dejection  in  the  girl's  face  which  the  darkness 
of  the  bedchamber  had  concealed.  She  leaned 
back  against  the  closed  doors  and  clasped  her 
hands  over  her  head  to  shelter  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  If  she  was  not  such  a  loud- 
mouthed, laz}^,  good-for-nothing,  trolloping  thing. 
I  wish  we  could  make  an  end  of  her !" — turning  to 
go.    "  Let  me  see  what  I  can  do  with  her  again." 

"Ask  her  to  wait  just  a  Uttle  while  longer; 
perhaps — " 

"Wait!  Lord  bless  you!  she  'ain't  got  any 
idea  of  going.  Gabriel  hisself  couldn't  drag  her 
away  for  the  judgment-day  withouten  that  gownd. 
I  ain't  afeard  of  her  going;  I'm  afeard  she'll 
holler  so  loud  the  madam  will  hear  her." 

Claire  peeped  anxiously  through  the  door  be- 
fore entering.  It  was  all  still.  She  walked  in 
on  tiptoe.  Her  grandmother  sat  with  her  eyes 
closed,  the  embroidery  in  her  hand. 

"  Ah,  bonne  chance  !" — her  face  was  sanguine 
and  gay  again — "  bonne  maman  has  gone  to  sleep 
at  last." 

She  hastily  got  her  gaudy  task  of  sewing,  and 
followed  Betsy  across  the  yard. 

The  little  kitchen  basked  in  the  double  heat 
of  sun  and  furnace,  and  was  overcrowded  with 


78  BONNE   MAMAN, 

its  assemblage  of  three.  The  only  chair  in  the 
room  was  occupied  by  the  colored  votary  of 
fashion,  whose  monotonous  argument  rolled  on 
to  an  unresponsive  audience. 

"  I  was  a-telling  this  lady  here,"  she  nodded  to 
Claire,  and  pointed  to  Betsy — "  I  was  a-telling 
her  I  wanted  my  frock  for  to-night,  for  that 
moonlight  picnic  is  a-coming  off  to-night  at  last. 
You  'ain't  heerd  tell  of  it?  Me  and  my  society 
gives  it,  and  all  the  members  is  going  to  go,  and 
they  is  bound  to  go.  I  laid  off  yesterday  to 
come  and  tell  you,  but  I  didn't  have  time  ;  and 
it  appears  to  me  a  week's  long  enough  to  make 
a  frock,  anyhow ;  and  if  it  wasn't,  you  should 
have  told  me  so  fair  and  square  before  you 
ever  put  a  needle  into  it.  The  moonlight  pic- 
nic's done  been  put  off  long  enough,  the  Lord 
knows  !  It  did  seem  to  me  as  how  we  never  would 
be  able  to  get  it  up.  Something  was  always 
a-happening  against  it.  Every  blessed  time  we 
got  all  the  money  we'd  look  in  the  box,  and,  sure 
enovigh,  there  wouldn't  be  enough  yet,  and  then 
it  would  be  put  off  till  another  collection.  And 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  Sister  Johnson's  funeral  last 
night  it  wouldn't  come  off  now.  But  it's  coming 
off  this  time,  sure;  'cause  if  it  had  a-come  off 
when  we  first  started  it,  Sister  Johnson  herself 
could  have  gone  to  it;  yes,  indeed,  as  sure  as  you 
are  standing  there;  and  if  it  hadn't  been  for  hold- 
ing her  funeral  last  night  I  don't  believe  we  ever 


BONNE    MAMAN. 


79 


would  have  got  it  up.  It  was  a-long  past  mid- 
night when  they  come  to  me  for  my  money,  'cause 
I  never  would  have  given  it  to  'em  before;  and 
after  they  had  done  got  all  the  money,  they  said 
as  how  they  had  better  wait  for  the  moon;  but 
the  sisters,  they  just  said,  '  No,  sir;  you  give  that 
there  moonlight  picnic  to-night,  moon  or  no 
moon,  'cause  it's  a  heap  easier  to  give  a  moon- 
light picnic  without  a  moon  than  without  the 
money.'  As  I  was  a-telling  this  lady  here,  and 
if  you  had  a-told  me  last  week  you  wasn't  a-going 
to  give  me  that  there  frock  there  for  the  moon- 
light picnic,  I  could  ha'  given  it  to  somebody  else. 
Lord  knows  there's  white  people  enough  to  do 
sewing,  and  glad  to  get  it;  and  you  knows  your- 
self, after  I  done  paid  my  money  last  night  at 
Sister  Johnson's  funeral  for  a  moonlight  picnic, 
I'm  bound  to  go,  and  I'm  bound  to  wear  a  new 
frock  if  I've  got  one." 

"  Lord,  child !  don't  you  jaw  so  much.  Don't 
you  see  the  mamzelle's  'most  done  it  ?  Who  says 
you  ain't  gwine  to  git  it  done  in  time  ?" 

"•  She's  bound  to  git  it  done  in  time,  if  I  stays 
here  a  week — she's  bound  to  git  it  done  in  time." 

It  lay  under  Claire's  busy  hands  on  the  table 
like  a  heap  of  fresh  glowing  vegetables.  The 
young  negress  picked  up  the  waist. 

"And  I  hope  to  gracious  you  'ain't  made  the 
josie  too  tight !  I  busts  my  josies  awful.  The 
color  is  real  stylish,  though.    You  'ain't  got  a  col- 


So  BONNE    MAMAN. 

lar  or  some  sort  of  neck  fixin'  you  could  sell  me, 
have  you?  I  could  pay  you  cash  down  for  it," 
rummaging  in  the  privacy  of  her  bosom;  "you 
can  see  for  yourself,"  untying  the  knot  in  a  hand- 
kerchief. "  Lord  knows  I  had  trouble  enough 
getting  this  money  after  I  had  done  worked  for 
it!  I  had  to  jaw  that  white  woman  what  owed  it 
to  me  two  hours  incessant  before  she  had  the 
grace  to  pay  me.  But  I  was  bound  to  get  it  for 
the  moonlight  picnic,  and  I  wasn't  going  to  wash 
and  iron  one  day  longer,  neither,  for  anybody, 
and  I  told  her  so.  Goodness  knows,  I  ain't 
obliged  to  work  for  her  nohow;  and  she  flung  it 
to  me,  and  told  me  for  God's  sake  to  hush  talk- 
ing, and  clear  out  and  never  let  her  lay  eyes  on 
me  no  more,  and  I  ain't  going  to,  neither;  and  if 
you've  got  any  sort  of  collar  or  neck  fixin'  you 
could  sell  me  cheap,  I'd  pay  you  cash  down  for 
it." 

"  Hein,  Betsie?"  asked  Claire,  putting  at  last 
the  finishing  stitches  in  her  work. 

Betsy  answered  in  a  quick  whisper,  "  Ef  you 
have  got  some  sort  of  little  old  thing  you  'ain't 
got  any  use  for,  you  know  the  money  '11  come  in 
mighty  handy." 

Claire  quit  the  kitchen,  hurried  across  the  little 
yard,  and  went  into  the  room  with  the  same  pre- 
cautions as  before.  Her  fingers  trembled  as  she 
opened  the  door  of  the  armoire  so  near  the  sleep- 
ing  grandmother,  and    she   pulled  from   an  old 


BONNE    MAM  AN.  8l 

pasteboard  box  the  first  piece  of  lace  that  met 
her  eye — a  large  antique  collar  of  Valenciennes, 
and  like  a  thief  she  crept  softly  away  with  it. 

"Will  this  do,  Betsie?"  she  asked,  entering  the 
kitchen. 

The  damage  done  its  marketable  value  by  the 
deep  yellow  color  was  painfully  evident  to  both. 

"  How  much  you  want  to  give  for  it  ?"  asked 
Betsy  of  the  customer. 

"Well,  I  can't  give  you  more'n  I've  got.  I'm 
willing  to  give  you  all  I  have  got,  and  that  is  the 
best  I  can  do.  Here's  the  six  bits  for  the  making 
of  the  frock,  fair  and  square  as  she  agreed  on, 
out  of  this  dollar,  and  here's  two  bits  besides, 
and  that's  the  last  cent  I've  got  in  this  world,  as 
the  Lord  hears  me  speak;  and  I  wouldn't  have 
had  that  two  bits  there  if  I  hadn't  been  let  off 
last  night  from  giving  it  to  the  collection,  'cause 
they  didn't  know  I  had  it;  and  they  wouldn't  'a' 
come  to  me,  nohow,  if  they  hadn't  found  out  I'd 
been  washing  by  the  week — " 

"  Six  bits  outen  the  dollar  and  two  bits  besides. 
How  much  does  that  make  altogether  ?"  asked 
Betsy  of  Claire. 

"And  that  dollar  there  was  what  the  white 
woman  gave  me." 

"  I  will  take  it,  Betsie,  I  will  take  it,"  said 
Claire,  eagerly.  "  I  assure  you  it  is  quite  suffi- 
cient," putting  the  piece  of  lace  into  the  bundle 
she  was  making 


82  BONNE    MAMAN. 

"  Well,  so  long  !"  The  negro  girl  loitered  on 
the  door -sill.  "I'm  just  a-willing  to  bet,  now, 
that  that  moonlight  picnic  is  put  off  again.  I  mis- 
trusted them  brothers  when  they  come  a-knock- 
ing  me  up  last  night  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 
I  don't  believe  in  moonlight  picnics,  nohow, 
and — 

She  walked,  talking,  away. 

"Eh,  Betsie?"  exclaimed  Claire.  "That  is 
plenty  of  money,  hein  ?  But  if  bonne  maman 
finds  out!" 

The  old  lady  did  not  open  her  eyes  for  some 
time  after  Claire  returned  to  the  chamber,  and 
then  she  resumed,  as  if  in  continuation  of  her 
thoughts  :  "  It  is  curious  I  never  thought  of  my 
little  work-table  until  to-day.  My  'corbeille  de 
noces.'  And  it  was  Aza  the  first  who  found  it 
out  —  Aza."  She  shook  her  head  meditatively 
as  she  repeated  the  name.  "  She  was  always 
pushing  herself  forward  where  I  was.  They 
told  me  I  spoiled  her ;  perhaps  so.  She  was 
more  like  a  doll  to  me  than  a  human  being. 
Her  mother  gave  her  to  me,  when  she  was  only 
a  day  old,  in  my  arms.  It  felt  so  grand  to  have 
a  live  doll,  just  as  I  was  beginning  to  tire  of 
the  others.  What  plans  I  made  for  her !  En- 
fin  !  it  was  the  will  of  God.  While  I  was  stand- 
ing, with  tears  in  my  eyes,  looking  at  the  needles 
and  thread,  Aza  was  feeling  the  green  bag  under- 
neath.   Do  you  remember  the  green  bag,  Claire  ?" 


BONNE    MAMAN.  83 

"  Do  I  remember  it,  bonne  maman?  But  sure- 
ly !" 

"  She  gave  the  drawer  one  pull,  and,  voila !  it 
was  all  before  me." 

The  grandmother's  bluish  hands,  with  their 
dark,  knotted,  angry  veins,  rubbed  nervously  up 
and  down  the  arms  of  her  chair,  and  she  made 
frequent  pauses  by  leaning  back  and  closing  her 
eyes,  breathing  heavily. 

"  Ma  foi,  if  Aza  had  waited,  she  would  not 
have  had  to  thank  me  for  her  freedom.  '  Ma 
fille,'  I  used  to  tell  her,  '  it  is  not  only  the  dif- 
ference in  our  skin,  but  the  difference  in  our 
nature.'  She  would  have  died  for  me — ah,  yes  ! 
— but  she  could  not  be  good  for  me.  Claire,  I 
wish  I  could  see  my  little  work-table  again." 
Her  voice,  usually  so  trained,  was  surprisingly 
plaintive  to-day.  "  You  see,  so  much  would  come 
back  to  me  if  I  could  see  my  little  table.  I 
think  sometimes,  mon  enfant,  that  the  loss  of  our 
souvenirs  is  the  worst  loss  of  all  for  us  women. 
^Vith  them  we  never  forget.  When  one  is  old, 
things  get  so  far  away.  When  we  are  young,  we 
are  like  dogs :  v/e  hide  away  out  of  our  provision 
of  the  present,  for  the  future,  scraps  of  ribbon, 
lace,  or  a  glove — no  matter  what — and  it  is  very 
hard  when,  old  and  hungry,  we  come  to  the  hid- 
ing-place and  find  them  all  gone.  Of  course  it  is 
all  sentiment;  but  we  women,  going  through  so 
much,  we  like  to  remember  when  everything  hap- 


84  BONNE    MAMAN. 

pened  for  the  first  time — one's  first  copy-book, 
one's  first  communion,  one's  first  ball,  and  when 
one  gets  married,  and  one's  first  child.  Ah,  mon 
Dieu !  one  can  get  reconciled  to  changes  in  life, 
but  one  cannot  get  reconciled  to  changes  in  one's 
self.  Even  when  our  souvenirs  are  crumbling  to 
dust  they  are  fresher  than  we  women  are  at  the 
end.  Mon  enfant,  I  advise  you,  give  up  every- 
thing in  life  except  your  souvenirs;  keep  them 
for  your  sentiments  to  gnaw  on,  as  one  might  say, 
when  you  get  old." 

"  Eh,  grand'mere,  souvenirs  of  what  ?  Of  the 
war?  of  the  convent?  Merci !  I  am  in  no  dan- 
ger of  forgetting  them.  Every  piece  of  bread  I 
eat  reminds  me  how  hungry  I  used  to  be  there, 
and—" 

The  grandmother  had  taken  another  leave  of 
absence  of  mind,  and  Claire,  having  now  no  ul- 
terior motive  for  loquacity,  was  silent  also. 

The  closed  eyes,  however,  were  not,  had  not 
been,  sleeping  ;  on  the  contrary,  under  their  pallid 
lids  they  were  looking  with  tense  vision,  in  vague 
fear  of  an  indeterminate  something  slowly  evolv- 
ing out  of  misty  uncertainty  into  a  fatal  convic- 
tion. 

That  the  conviction  had  not  come  to  her  before 
was  owing  to  the  coercive  strength  of  an  inflexible 
will ;  that  it  came  to  her  to-day  with  the  irrefutable 
accumulated  evidence  hitherto  suppressed  or  ig- 
nored, did  not  astonish,  only  awed,  her.     Women 


BONNE    MAMAN.  85 

live  SO  close  to  nature,  they  are  guided  from  initia- 
tion to  initiation  in  life  by  signals  and  warnings 
— divine,  they  call  them  —  which  they,  and  only 
they,  can  see.  There  can  be  no  question  with 
them  of  rebellion,  no  refusing  of  the  credentials 
of  the  angels  of  the  twilight  who  still  knock  at 
their  doors,  the  bearers  of  God's  commands,  mes- 
sengers of  life  or  messengers  of  death. 

She  was  failing — failing  in  physical,  failing  in 
mental,  strength.  The  child  Claire  was  manag- 
ing her,  doing  her  work  for  her  surreptitiously. 
It  was  time  for  her  to  prepare  for  the  future;  she 
would  do  it,  but  why  would  the  past  obtrude  upon 
her,  turning  its  corpse  lights  into  every  nook  and 
cranny  of  her  memory?  Regrets  were  useless; 
now  that  death  was  so  near,  but  why  would  they 
come,  sowing  discord,  corroding  with  tardy  in- 
decision the  supreme  decisions  of  her  life,  ar- 
raigning, from  the  vantage-ground  of  the  present, 
cherished  feats  of  spent  heroism,  testing  the 
metal  of  her  approaching  martyr's  crown  ? 

"This,  then,  was  to  be  the  end  of  a  life  conduct- 
ed on  principles  drawn  from  heroic  inspirations  of 
other  times.  The  principles  were  the  same,  but 
human  nature  had  changed  since  women's  hearts 
were  strong  enough  not  to  break  over  bullet 
wounds,  sabre  cuts,  and  horse-hoof  mutilations, 
when  women's  hands  were  large  enough  to  grasp 
and  hold  the  man-abandoned  tiller  of  the  house- 
hold.    It  had  all  gone  wrong."     The   old  lady 


86  BONNE    MAMAN. 

spread  her  handkerchief  over  her  eyes.  The 
closed  Hds  could  not  shut  in  all  the  tears.  "  Yes, 
it  had  all  gone  wrong  somehow.  The  battle 
turned  out  a  defeat,  not  a  victory ;  the  son  came 
back  on  his  shield,  not  with  it."  And  she  ?  She 
might  perhaps  have  done  better.  Death  would 
now  have  been  easier  for  her  if  the  times  and  she 
had  been  different  in  the  past.  Had  it  not  been 
for  overflows  and  disasters  and  disappointments, 
for  failure  of  crops  and  epidemics  of  disease,  for 
the  feeding  of  so  many  useless  and  infirm  depend- 
ents, she  too  might  have  been  a  successful  plan- 
tation manager.  As  it  was,  when  her  commission- 
merchant  came  to  her  with  a  statement,  she 
frankly  and  firmly  acknowledged  that  she  could 
not  rightfully  claim  an  acre  of  her  possessions. 
They  came  in  a  royal  grant ;  they  went  in  a  royal 
cause.  There  were  law  quibbles ;  but  was  she 
one  to  lose  a  creed  to  grovel  for  coppers  ?  She 
might  have  gone  to  France,  as  it  was  supposed 
she  had  done  ;  and  desert  the  country  for  which 
her  only  son  had  died  ?  But  after  the  war  she 
was  less  than  ever  a  Frenchwoman,  more  than 
ever  an  American.  At  bay,  every  nerve  tingling 
with  haughty  defiance  at  the  taunts  and  jeers  of 
despising  conquerors,  every  heart-throb  beating 
accusations  of  womanly  weakness  and  grief,  what 
more  effective  answer  to  the  challengers  of  her 
blood  and  country,  what  nobler  one  to  herself, 
than   bravely    to    assume   the   penalty  she    had 


BONNE    MAMAN.  87 

dared  ?  As  the  men  had  fought,  let  the  women 
suffer  against  overpowering  odds.  So  she  left 
the  beautiful  country,  her  plantation,  her  home, 
her  souvenirs  of  youth  and  happiness,  and  came 
to  the  detested  city,  sought  out  this  little  cabin 
left  vacant  by  the  death  of  an  old  slave,  and  with 
Claire  commenced  that  life  to  which  she  had  con- 
vinced herself  she  was  committed  by  fate  and  by 
principle.  It  was  an  extreme  of  resolution  to 
meet  an  extreme  of  disaster.  Ameliorations  of 
her  lot  were  intolerable  even  in  thought.  She 
had  made  her  destitution  complete  by  renouncing 
even  friends,  relations,  social  amenities,  with  her 
humble  neighbors. 

Thus  she  had  lived  her  retaliation  against  fate 
— there  was  no  doubt  about  that  now — thorough- 
ly, eifectively,  and  death  was  upon  her.  But 
Claire?  The  handkerchief  could  not  hide  the 
convulsive  movement  of  her  bosom  as  she  rec- 
ognized now  the  short  range  of  heroic  vision. 

The  figure  of  her  pale,  cheerful,  brave,  toiling 
granddaughter  came  before  her  with  the  unearthly 
vividness  of  those  visions  which  in  stormy  nights 
bring  women  their  dead.  The  agony  she  had 
felt  in  abandoning  her  children  to  the  isolation 
and  ugliness  of  the  tomb  resuscitated  poignantly 
at  the  abandonment  of  this  her  last  child  to  life. 

What  tomb  could  be  lonelier  or  uglier  than 
this  little  cabin  would  be  to  Claire  when  she,  the 
grandmother,  was  dead  ? 


88  BONNE   MAMAN. 

Would  the  patriotic  death  of  the  girl's  father, 
would  the  martyrdom  of  her  mother,  would  a 
proud  disdain  of  law  quibbles,  would  the  renun- 
ciation of  friends  and  the  defiance  of  enemies, 
alleviate  her  affliction  then,  or  solace  her  in  her 
youthful,  unaided  life-struggle,in  those  conditions 
for  which  ancestral  glories,  refinements,  and  lux- 
uries had  but  poorly  equipped  her  ?  Could,  in 
fact,  their  enemies  have  prepared  an  extremity  of 
suffering  beyond  that  to  which  Claire  was  pre- 
destined by  her  own  grandmother  ? 

The  sun  went  down  on  the  little  back  street 
earlier  than  elsewhere  on  account  of  the  huge  old 
square  house  blocking  up  the  west.  The  win- 
dows and  doors  unclosed  as  its  rays  withdrew, 
and  the  hidden  community  finished  the  day's 
task  in  the  publicity  of  the  front  steps,  until  twi- 
light released  them  to  indulge  in  the  relaxation 
of  neighborly  gossip — all  except  the  corner  cot- 
tage, which  maintained  its  distrustful  reserve  even 
through  the  gentle,  winning  shades  of  evening. 

When  others  went  in  front  to  greet  each  other 
with  the  commonplaces  of  human  interdepend- 
ence, Claire  and  her  grandmother  went  back 
into  the  contracted  area  between  the  house  and 
kitchen,  and  expended  their  tendernesses  on  the 
mendicant  groups  of  potted  plants  that  formed 
their  garden.  The  old  lady  walked  this  even- 
ing from  shrub  to  shrub,  laying  her  gentle,  with- 


BONNE   MAMAN.  89 

ered  hands  with  maternal  expertness  amid  the 
gieen  leaves, straightening  distorted  branches,  and 
searching  out  diseased  spots.  Her  own  heart  felt 
bruised  and  sore  from  suppressed  emotion,  and 
craved  the  faint  fragrance,  which,  it  seemed  to  her, 
her  plants  had  never  yielded  so  willingly  or  so 
abundantly.  Did  they  understand  all,  and  sym- 
pathize with  her  ?  The  tears  came  into  her  eyes 
again,  but  Claire  had  gone  to  take  the  embroidery 
home,  so  there  was  no  need  to  hide  them. 

The  brilliant  sunset  sky  burned  overhead  in 
deep  ingulfing  masses,  reaching  clown  to  the 
pointed  roof  of  the  cottage — the  despised  roof 
whose  shelter  she  had  sought  as  the  deepest  in- 
sult she  could  inflict  upon  the  world.  The  old, 
worn,  menial  house  !  it  also  looked  kindly,  pro- 
tectingly,  at  her,  as  if  it  also  had  penetrated  her 
secret — the  last  secret  of  her  life.  An  old,  old 
sentiment  thrilled  in  her  heart  as  she  looked 
through  her  tears  at  it  for  the  first  time  as  at  a 
home.  "  Ah,  mon  Dieu,"  she  thought,  "  every- 
thing seems  to  know  and  feel  for  me,  just  as  it 
used  to  know  and  feel  when  I  carried  other  se- 
crets in  my  breast !"  The  youthful,  timid  falter- 
ing came  over  her  once  more,  the  virgin  shudder 
before  unknown  mysteries,  the  same  old  girlish 
need  of  help  and  encouragement.  But  she  over- 
came the  expression  of  her  face  as  she  heard  the 
key  turn  in  the  lock  of  the  little  back  gate  behind 
the  cistern.    Claire  entered  boisterously,  followed 


90  BONNE    MAMAN. 

by  Betsy  with  a  bundle.  She  tossed  off  her  hat 
with  its  ugly  veil  of  blue  barege. 

"  Oh,  bonne  maman  !  Such  a  delicious  walk  ! 
If  I  only  had  embroidery  to  take  home  every 
evening  !  And  the  old  '  Varon  '  could  not  have 
been  more  amiable.  Ah,  it's  so  good  to  go  out 
on  the  street !" 

She  stretched  her  arms  over  her  head,  tighten- 
ing the  faded  waist  around  her  swelling  breast  as 
she  looked  up  in  the  brilliant  sunset  sky  above. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  but  it's  all  beautiful.  I  wish  I 
could  walk  up  there  in  all  that  pink  and  blue  and 
gold ;  walk  deeper  and  deeper  in  it,  until  it  came 
up  all  around  and  over  me  !" 

She  drew  a  long,  quivering  breath. 

"  Do  you  smell  the  night  jasmine,  bonne  ma- 
man ?  I  do  not  know  how  it  is  with  you,  but  it 
is  as  if  it  came  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles 
just  to  me  and  no  one  else,  and  it  makes  me  feel 
faint  with  its  sweetness." 

She  threw  her  arms  around  her  grandmother 
and  embraced  her  impulsively. 

"You  see,  it  is  so  good  to  go  on  the  street, 
bonne  maman.  It  makes  one  feel  so  gay,  so 
fresh,  so  strong.  Ah,  you  ought  to  go  some- 
times with  me,  just  to  see  all  the  people.  How 
many  people  there  must  be  in  the  world  !  And  I 
know  only  three — you,  Betsie,  and  old  Varon. 
But  I  am  glad  they  are  there  all  the  same,  even  if 
I  do  not  know  them." 


BONNE   MAMAN. 


91 


A  loud,  coarse,  passionate  waltz  seemed  to  fall 
in  rhythmic  links  over  the  glass-protected  brick 
wall.  She  released  her  grandmother  and  danced 
round  and  round,  as  if  caught  in  its  melodious 
wheels,  until  it  left  her  panting  and  glowing. 

"  When  I  hear  music  like  that,  bonne  maman, 
it  is  as  if  my  blood  would  come  out  of  my  veins 
and  dance  right  there  before  me.  Sometimes  in 
the  night  I  hear  it ;  I  think  at  first  I'm  dreaming, 
but  then  I  wake  and  listen  to  it  until  I  stop  my 
ears  and  hold  myself  still,  for,  oh,  bonne  maman  ! 
I  want  so  much  to  get  up  and  follow  it,  out,  out, 
wherever  it  is,  until  I  come  to  the  place  where 
it  begins  fresh  and  sweet  and  clear  from  the 
piano,  and  then  dance,  dance,  dance,  until  I  can- 
not dance  one  step  more  !" 

The  words  fell  in  unguarded  fervor,  and  her 
eyes  began  to  burn  with  feverish  brightness.  Bet- 
sy plucked  at  her  dress. 

"  Mamzelle  !" 

"  Sometimes  I  wonder  whether  it  is  in  the  music 
or  in  me — " 

"  Mamzelle  !     Mamzelle  !" 

"  Whether  it  is  in  me  alone  or  in  everybody — " 

"  Mamzelle  Claire,  just  one  word  !" 

"  Decidedly  that  Betsie  is  very  badly  raised," 
remarked  bonne  maman,  in  an  undertone. 

"  When  I  smell  the  night  jasmine  I  feel  it  a 
little,  and  when  I  look  up  in  the  sky  like  a  while 
ago ;  but  it's  never  so  strong  as  when  I  hear  mu- 


92 


BONNE   MAMAN. 


sic.  Oh,  bonne  maman,  can't  you  give  me  some- 
thing to  make  me  stop  feeling  this  way — to  make 
that  music  let  me  alone  ?" 

"  Mamzelle  !" — the  negro  excitedly  placed  her 
hand  on  Claire's  arm  to  enforce  attention. 

"  If  Aza  could  see  that !"  The  old  lady  turned 
away  in  disgust. 

"  Mamzelle !  I  can't  stand  by  and  see  you 
dancing  and  singing  to  that  music  you  hear  over 
there,  and  hear  you  talk  about  getting  up  in  the 
night  and  following  it."  The  old  black  woman's 
voice  trembled,  and  her  fingers  tightened  convul- 
sively over  the  slim  white  arm.  "  I  don't  tell 
the  madam,  'cause  it's  no  use  bothering  her ;  but, 
mamzelle,  as  sure  as  God  hears  me  now,  them 
niggers  over  there  don't  play  no  music  excepting 
for  devils  to  dance  by,  and  that  piano  don't  talk 
nothing  fittin'  a  young  white  lady  to  listen  to." 

"  Eh  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Mamzelle — " 

"  Does  that  hurt  the  music  who  plays  it  ?  Do 
you  think  I  want  to  dance  to  it,  to  listen  to  it  ?" 
She  pushed  Betsy's  hand  off,  with  her  fingers 
grown  clammy  ;  her  cheeks  were  crimson,  and  her 
lips  blushed  at  the  strange  maturity  of  expression 
so  new  to  them. 

"  Did  I  say  I  was  going  to  get  up  at  night  and 
follow  it  .■*  Did  I  say  I  was  going  on  the  street 
every  evening  ?  Did  I  say  I  would  rush  up  to  the 
people  to  feel  them  clasp  my  hands  only  once? 


BONNE    MAMAN. 


93 


I  only" — and  her  voice  came  in  a  sob — "I  only 
said  I  wanted  to." 

The  music  came  now  lower  and  sweeter.  She 
stopped  her  ears.  "  There  !  that  is  what  I  must 
do — eh  .''     Why  doesn't  it  stop  talking  to  me  ?" 

"But,  mamzelle,  they  is — '' 

"  It  doesn't  cost  anything,"  she  interrupted, 
furiously — "  it  doesn't  cost  anything  to  listen  to 
music,  to  know  people.  I  don't  have  to  work  for 
it,  like  bread  and  meat ;  and,  grand  Dieu,  how 
much  better  it  is  !'' 

Two  tears  rolled  from  her  hot  eyes  ;  she  paused 
in  startled  awe  and  carried  her  hands  up  to 
them. 

"  Claire !  Claire  Blanche  !  you  had  better  come 
in,  child." 

"  Yes,  bonne  maman," 

Outside,  in  the  street,  the  steps  filled  up  with 
white  -  sacqued  women.  The  men  tilted  their 
chairs  back  against  the  trees  and  the  walls  of 
their  houses  and  smoked  their  cigarettes.  The 
children — and  this  street  could  have  supplied  a 
city  with  children — raced  from  corner  to  corner 
to  dance  out  the  sample  tunes  of  passing  organ- 
grinders.  The  conversation  flowed  in  an  easy 
murmuring  tide  from  group  to  group,  soared  over 
every  now  and  then  by  a  dominant  cry  in  pursuit 
of  some  refractory  fugitive. 

"  You  Var — iste  !" 

"  A — na— to — le  !" 


94 


BONNE    MAMAN. 


"  Ga  cette  Marie  Ik  bas  !" 

"Jo — seph — ine!" 

"  Josephine,  to  maman  'peler  toi  !" 

"  'Polite  !  tu  veux  pas  finir  ?" 

The  lamplighter  threaded  his  way  among  the 
chairs,  scoring  off  a  dim  record  of  his  passage  up 
among  the  green  leaves  of  the  trees.  As  the 
darkness  settled  over  the  bushy  tops  of  the  or- 
ange hedge,  blotting  the  vague  outlines  of  the 
screened  house,  prodigal  fragments  of  merriment 
seemed  to  be  thrown  in  scornful  carelessness 
down  the  street — dance  music  with  its  impetuous 
accelerations,  overtures  of  song  and  chorus,  break- 
ing off  in  loud  laughter  and  the  tread  of  dancing 
feet, 

"  They  are  gay  over  there  this  evening." 

"  When  one  is  like  that — " 

The  women  united  their  heads  for  female  com- 
ment; but  the  men,  their  cigarettes  spangling  the 
gloom,  listened  in  silence,  casting  secret,  wistful 
glances  in  the  direction  of  the  occult  merry- 
making. 

"  They  won't  sleep  much  over  there  to-night," 
said  one,  pointing  to  the  corner  cottage. 

"  As  much  as  any  Saturday  night,"  was  an- 
swered, with  a  shrug. 


It  was  long  before  day  when  Betsy,  with  mi- 
nute particularity,  closed  the  little  gate  behind 
her,  and  started  out  with  her  stick  in  her  hand 


BONNE    MAMAX. 


95 


and  her  sack  over  her  shoulder.  She  belonged 
to  that  division  of  humanity  who  seek  their  daily 
food  in  the  daily  refuse  of  others.  She  was  a  rag- 
picker—  a  gleaner  in  the  nocturnal  fields  of  a 
great  city.  Her  harvests  were  not  beautiful  nor 
savory ;  but  compensations  in  the  shape  of  free- 
dom from  competition,  weather  influences,  and  a 
stable  market  are  not  to  be  despised,  particularly 
by  one  for  whom  the  darkness  has  no  terrors,  the 
loneliness  no  trepidations.  She  had  contracted 
a  stoop  in  her  shoulders  from  so  much  bending 
over  barrels  and  buckets  and  tubs,  and  peering 
through  dim  light  into  the  slimy  bottoms  of  mud- 
dy gutters,  so  that  her  face  seldom  met  the  glance 
of  the  passing  world,  in  whose  litter  it  was  or- 
dained she  should  seek  her  food ;  but  when  she 
did  look  up,  there  was  seen  no  reflection  of  cor- 
ruption or  filth  in  her  small  clear  black  eyes ;  no 
grovelling  purposes  conceived  in  grovelling  pur- 
suits. Although  dressed  in  a  picked-up,  motley 
livery,  thrown  off  from  the  shoulders,  perhaps,  of 
vice,  sin,  or  crime,  the  audible  thought  which  fell 
mechanically  from  her  lips  as  she  plied  her  trade 
carried  the  conviction  that  her  harlequinade  was 
one  of  costume  only.  The  old  creature's  twilight 
meanderings  had  taught  her  much  of  life,  and 
while  she  knew  little  of  the  gifts  of  civilization, 
she  had  not  many  of  its  banes  to  find  out,  hav- 
ing had  more  experience  with  vice  than  with 
virtue,  which  with  purity  and  goodness  dwelt  a 


96  BONNE    MAMAN. 

long  way  back  in  her  nnemory,  or  a  long  way  for- 
ward in  Biblical  promise. 

The  repertoire  of  her  monologues  was  not  large 
or  varied ;  wherever  they  ended,  they  generally 
began  with  an  early  morning  like  this,  "nigh  on 
to  three  years  ago,"  when,  going  forth  to  pick 
rags,  she  found  a  mistress,  and  in  lieu  of  daily 
bread  gained  daily  bondage.  She  was  turning 
over  the  contents  of  a  very  destitute  box  indeed 
that  morning  when  a  gate  behind  her  suddenly 
opened,  and  a  young  white  girl  appeared. 

"  A  young  white  girl  in  this  here  quadroon  fau- 
bourg !  My  Lord  !  what  does  this  mean  ?"  her 
cultivated  suspicions  prompted  her  to  exclaim. 

But  the  young  girl,  frankly,  in  the  confidence 
of  innocent  childhood,  said,  with  a  polite  propi- 
tiating smile,  in  stiff,  unpractised  English  : 

"  I  hear  you  every  morning ;  I  attended  for 
you  this  morning;  I  want  that  you  direct  me  the 
way  of  the  market." 

"  You  git  up  this  time  o'  day  to  ask  me  the 
way  to  the  market  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  my  grandmother  yet  sleeps.  I  wish 
to  go  there  before  she  wakes  herself." 

"  Honey,  'ain't  you  got  nobody  to  go  for  you  ?" 

"  No,  nobody  now,  for — " 

"  And  what  could  a  nigger  do  ?"  muttered  Betsy, 
in  self-extenuation — "  more  inspecially  a  Baptist, 
a  fresh-water  Baptist  and  a  cold-water  Baptist, 
and  a  hanger-on  of  the  Cross?" 


BONNE    MAMAN. 


97 


It  was  the  chance  that  Hnks  together  husband 
and  wife,  that  determines  the  fall  of  a  dynasty, 
or  directs  the  feet  of  the  outcast  to  a  loving 
home. 

Circumstances  never  permitted  the  childish  ap- 
peal for  assistance  to  cease,  and  an  unselfish,  ten- 
der heart  never  permitted  it  to  meet  with  disap- 
pointment. It  was  three  years  now  since  that 
morning,  but  the  sun,  measuring  their  horizon 
hour  by  hour,  had  never  shown  on  a  moment  of 
distrust  in  either  to  their  simple  confidence,  or 
of  disloyalty  to  the  pious  obligation  of  serving, 
by  fair  means  or  foul,  the  proud  old  lady  glory- 
ing in  her  lofty  ideas  of  self-support. 

"  I  can  see  the  end,"  Betsy  told  herself,  fishing 
around  in  a  pestiferous  heap,  "  but  I  can't  see 
after  the  end.  The  old  madam's  a-failing ;  I  seen 
she  was  a-failing  the  first  day  I  laid  eyes  on  her  ; 
and  the  young  mamzelle  is  a-growing-and  a-ripen- 
ing  and  beginning  to  notice  things  woman-like. 
The  old  madam,  she  don't  suspicion  nothing,  nor 
the  young  mamzelle  neither.  The  end's  a-com- 
ing,  and  it's  bound  to  come.  The  laughing  and 
the  singing  and  the  working  all  day  and  half  the 
night  ain't  a-going  to  put  it  off,  neither;  and  it's 
a  crucifying  world,  anyhow." 

The  old  lady  that  morning  was  also  trying  to 
look  beyond  the  end,  and  was  seeing  Claire  grow- 
ing up  instead  of  remaining  forever  a  child  — 
growing  up  in  spite  of  tragedy,  starvation,  impris- 

7 


98  BONNE   MAMAN. 

onment,  inta  beauty,  gayety,  joyousness  ;  craving 
sympathy,  companionship,  mental  food  ;  throwing 
out  woman  tendrils  in  all  directions ;  cut  off  by 
short-sighted  precautions  from  friends,  from  re- 
lations, even  from  certification  of  her  own  iden- 
tity; alone,  literally  alone,  but  for  the  homely 
friend  picked  up  out  of  the  street.  She  had  sent 
Claire  to  church,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  by 
herself  that  morning  in  order  to  carry  out  the 
one  project  that  had  come  to  her  in  her  agony. 
She  called  Betsy  to  the  side  of  her  rocking-chair. 

"  Betsie,  you  approach  me." 

Her  English,  like  most  of  her  youthful  posses- 
sions, was  hers  yet  only  by  an  effort  of  memory. 
She  spoke  very  slowly,  reconnoitring  for  equiva- 
lents for  her  agitated  French  thoughts. 

"  Betsie,  it  must  we  all  die." 

"  Lord  !  old  miss." 

"Betsie,  it* must  you  die,  it  must  me  die,  but 
more  maybe  me  than  you." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Betsie,  when  it  comes  we  die,  we  look  for 
friends — hein  ?" 

"  I  reckon  so,  old  miss." 

"  Betsie,  when  it  comes  I  die,  me,  I  look  for 
friends,  what  see  I  ?  Mademoiselle  Claire  and 
you.  You  and  Claire,  nobody  more  —  eh,  Bet- 
sie?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Betsie,  all  this  time  I  have  been  fool ;  but  I 


BONNE    MAMAN. 


99 


be  fool  no  more.  I  not  work  for  myself ;  no, 
Claire,  she  work  for  me ;  you,  you  \vork  for  me  ; 
but  me,  I  not  work  for  myself.  Oh  !  I  think  so,  I 
work  for  myself,  but  no.  Now,  I  know,  me.  jNIy 
eyes,  they  have  been  shut,  but  now  they  see 
everything." 

There  were  tears  of  mortification  in  the  proud 
old  ej^es,  whose  first  coquettish  scintillations  lay 
so  deep  buried  under  the  grief-drifts  of  a  lifetime. 

"  Since  a  long  time  I  work  not.  Claire  Blanche, 
she  make  my  '  broderie  '  for  me." 

"  Please,  old  miss,  don't  you  go  and  get  mad 
with  the  mamzelle  for  that !" 

"  Me,  I  do  nothing  more ;  for  why  ?  I  die. 
Since  two  years  I  die.  I  do  not  know  it  before  ; 
but  I  know  it  now,  well,  well.  Betsie,  you  come 
close,  close."  The  negress  could  not  sit ;  stand- 
ing, her  face  was  too  high  up.  She  knelt  down 
by  the  chair. 

"  Betsie,  I  very  sick ;  I  die  to-day  or  to-morrow." 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,  old  miss." 

"  To-day,  to-morrow,  or  soon.  1  know  not  when, 
but  soon." 

"  Can't  you  take  something,  old  miss  ?" 

"  No,  Betsie.  I  do  not  need  medicaments  ;  it 
is  death  what  I  need.  Die,  Betsie,  that  is  some- 
thing terrible ;  no,  not  for  the  agonizing,  but  for 
the  others.  It  lasts  long  sometimes — hein,Betsie?" 

"  God  knows,  ma'am." 

"  Betsie,  when  it  comes  I  die,  you  stand  here, 


100  BONNE    MAMAN. 

SO,  close  ;  Claire,  she  stand  there  " — pointing  to 
the  next  room.  "You  here,  she  there;  then  she 
not  see." 

Her  voice,  obedient  to  the  strong  will,  was 
clear,  but  at  times  a  weakening  tone  from  the 
heart  marred  its  firmness,  and  turned  the  com- 
mand into  a  petition. 

"  I  understand,  old  miss." 

"  Betsie,  in  my  life  I  have  seen  much  die.  It 
did  me  nothing.  For  why  ?  I  was  happy.  I 
have  hold  the  hand ;  I  have  made  the  prayer. 
But  I  had  much  family  still.  Betsie,  if  it  comes  I 
die,  like  you  and  me  we  have  seen  some  die — 
Betsie,  ma  bonne  femme  Betsie,  you  will  not  let 
ma  petite  Claire  see.  Betsie,  swear  me  that.  My 
good  God  !  Betsie,  you  think  she  ever  laugh  like 
last  night  when  she  see  me,  her  bonne  maman, 
die  ?     Betsie,  swear  me  that." 

"I  swear  you  that  on  the  Bible,  old  miss." 

"Betsie,  you  will  say  her  nothing  —  nothing. 
God,  He  will  tell  her  —  oh,  He  will  tell  her  in 
time.  You  say  I  strong  ;  you  say  I  well  —  hein, 
Betsie  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  That  is  all — that  is  all  for  the  moment." 

"  There's  something  else,  old  miss,  you've  done 
forgot,"  began  the  negro  woman,  still  on  her 
knees,  her  short,  thick  eyelashes  crystallized  with 
tears,  a  surpassing  pleading  in  her  voice.  "  Old 
miss,  ain't  you  gwine  to  send  for  none  of  your 


BONNE   MAMAN.  loi 

folks — none  of  your  friends  ?  Old  miss,  you  heerd 
that  child  out  there  last  night  just  a-yearning  for 
some  folks  and  friends.  Old  miss,  let  me  go  out 
and  find  'em  for  you.  I  will  search  this  town 
through  from  end  to  end,  but  I'll  find  'em  for 
you,  old  miss.  For  God's  sake,  old  miss,  don't 
leave  that  child  here  with  only  one  poor  old  nig- 
ger for  her  friend!  Old  miss"  —  putting  her 
eager  lips  close  to  the  bleached,  withered  ear — 
"  old  miss,  they  is  all  out  there ;  the  earth  is  full 
of  friends,  old  miss.     Just  let  me  go  for  'em." 

The  bonne  maman  reached  out  her  hand  and 
laid  it  on  Betsy's  head -handkerchief.  "You 
have  reason,  Betsie — you  have  more  reason  than 
me.  You  are  one  good  woman,  and  I  ask  the 
good  God  to  bless  you.  For  me  and  for  my 
grandchild.  I  do  not  know  to  talk  it,  Betsie, 
but "  —  she  drew  the  black  face  to  her  and 
pressed  her  lips  on  the  forehead — "  that  is  what 
I  would  say,  Betsie." 

"  Old  miss,  you  will  send  for  your  folks  ?" 

"Yes,  Betsie,  to-morrow.  Betsie,"  she  called 
again,  as  the  woman  was  leaving  the  room,  "  you 
will  tell  Mademoiselle  Claire  nothing — nothing; 
it  will  come  to  her  soon  enough — eh  ?" 

"  'Fore  God  in  heaven  I  promise  you  that,  old 
miss." 

But  she  was  never  strong  enough  to  send  the 
summons ;  the  angel  had  delayed  too  long  on  the 
road  with  his  warning. 


102  BONNE   MAMAN, 

The  first  kisses  of  the  spring  sun  bring  out  the 
orange  blossoms,  and  the  first  movements  of  the 
spring  breeze  loosen  them  with  gentle  frolickings 
from  their  stems,  to  carry  the  sweet  fragrant  be- 
trayal of  their  wantonness  round  to  all  the  open 
windows  of  the  city.  The  children,  with  their 
quick  divinations,  have  the  news  of  the  blossom- 
ing betimes,  and  they  muster  in  full  force  on  the 
banquettes  under  the  trees,  intrepidly  braving  for 
the  nonce  the  insulting  volleys  of  their  ambushed 
foes.  Before  the  dust  of  the  street  could  pollute 
the  flowers  in  their  abasement,  before  the  sun 
had  time  to  wither  their  unsheltered  freshness, 
deft  little  black,  brown,  and  yellow  fingers  had 
heaped  them  in  high-drav/n  skirts,  old  hats,  scraps 
of  pottery,  rag,  or  paper,  to  garner  them,  not  on 
their  favorite  steps,  but  in  a  cache  selected  for 
temporary  use.  For  on  the  silent  green  doors 
they  loved  Death  had  affixed  his  standard,  and 
the  long  black  crape  floating  with  majestic  so- 
lemnity in  the  sweet  air  frightened  them  away. 
The  little  cabin,  always  so  dark,  so  quiet,  so 
unobtrusive,  thrilled  the  early  openers  of  the  win- 
dows about  with  the  unexpected  sign  of  its  stig- 
mata. Sleep  had  lulled  them  all  into  uncon- 
scious unhelpfulness,  and  daylight  wakened  them 
to  accusing  repentance. 

"  La  pauvre  vieille  madame  1^-ye,  morte  pen- 
dant la  nuit." 

"  Ah,  misericorde  !" 


BONNE   MAMAN.  103 

"Si  je  I'avais  su." 

"Etmoi." 

It  was  Sunday,  the  church  bells  were  calling 
them  all  to  mass  (all  except  one — one  who  they 
remembered  had  always  gone  to  the  earliest 
mass),  slipping  along  the  street  masked  in  veils. 
It  is  an  old-fashioned  Creole  city,  with  a  pompous 
funereal  etiquette,  where  no  dispensation  is  sought 
or  given  for  the  visit  commanded  by  the  crape 
scarf.  Death  himself  had  unlatched  the  reserved 
green  doors,  and  was  host  to-day.  And  where 
Death  receives,  the  house  is  free  to  all  the  "  blan- 
chisseuse  en  fin,"  the  "  coiffeuse,"  the  "  garde 
malade,"  the  little  hunchback  who  kept  the 
"rabais,"  the  passers-by  to  and  from  mass,  the 
market-woman  with  her  basket,  the  paper-boy 
with  his  papers — all  entered  the  little  chamber,  if 
but  for  a  moment,  to  say  a  little  prayer,  or  bow  in 
respect  to  the  conqueror  and  the  conquered.  The 
old  aristocrat  lay  in  her  cofifin  in  the  bare,  un- 
furnished room,  where  she  had  lived  with  her 
poverty,  her  pride,  and  her  griefs,  looking  up 
through  her  mutilations  of  age  and  infirmity, 
through  her  wrinkles,  discolorations,  and  the  stony 
glaze  of  death,  with  the  patient  resignation  of  a 
marble  statue  looking  up  through  the  turbidities 
of  a  sluggish  stream,  while  the  eyes  she  had  so 
carefully  shunned  in  life  gazed  their  fill  of  her. 

The  hour  of  noon  approached,  the  siesta  hour 
of  the  neighborhood. 


104  BONNE    MAMAN. 

A  Iarge,heavy-limbed  woman  dressed  with  showy 
elegance  moved  slowly  down  the  street,  and  stop- 
ped for  a  moment  before  the  door,  while  her  eyes 
with  languid  curiosity  measured  the  length  and 
texture  of  the  black  scarf.  Past  middle  age,  but 
not  past  the  luxuriant  maturity  of  her  prime,  she 
held  her  head  insolently  back,  challenging  and 
defying  observation,  proclaiming  and  glorying  in 
a  pampered  self-consciousness.  From  under  the 
black  lace  of  her  veil  jewels  glistened  on  the 
soft,  barbaric  brown  skin.  Pleasure  seemed  to 
have  sensualized  features  and  form  into  danger- 
ous alluring  harmony,  and  panoplied  her  mind 
against  thought.  Her  sleepy,  large  eyes  rested 
on  the  door  while  she  paused,  hesitating  between 
the  instinctive  craving  of  morbid  curiosity  and 
half- dormant  reminiscences  of  recent  gratifica- 
tions ;  then,  without  glancing  at  the  paper  flutter- 
ing from  the  door,  she  entered  the  room.  She 
bent  over  the  cofhn  with  its  emaciated,  pitiful 
human  contents,  and  her  eyes  dilated  with  the 
fascination. 

"  White  !"  she  whispered,  in  surprise,  with  a  con- 
temptuous smile  on  her  voluptuous  lips.  What  ex- 
quisite flattery  to  her  own  rich,  exuberant,  sumpt- 
uous flesh !  What  triumph  for  the  fierce,  bold 
blood  thrilling  and  leaping  in  her  veins  !  She 
raised  herself  with  complacent  comeliness,  and 
looked  again  before  leaving. 

"  Mais  !     I  never  noticed  it  before.     It  is  very 


BONNE   MAMAN.  105 

strange.  Mais  grand  Dieu !"  she  screamed,  in 
reckless  self-abandonment.  "  It  is  she  !  I  know 
it  is  she  !"  She  remembered  the  paper  at  the 
door,  and  tore  it  off  and  read  it.  "  I  tell  you," 
she  screamed  again  to  the  impassive  watcher, 
Betsy — "  I  tell  you  it  is  she !  Mamzelle  Nenaine  ? 
Mamzelle  Nenaine  ?"  she  interrogated,  in  an  ago- 
nized whisper,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  by 
the  coffin.  "  Is  it  you  }  Oh  !  is  it  you .'"  She 
looked  around  fiercely  and  wildly.  "  But  what  does 
it  all  mean  ?  What  can  it  all  mean  ?  Can't  you 
answer  me  ?"  she  demanded,  in  English,  of  Betsy. 
"Are  you  a  fool  ?  How  did  this  lady  come  here  ? 
Who  did  it  ?     I  want  to  know  who  dared  do  it  ?" 

Betsy  had  risen  respectfully.  She  was  trying, 
with  God's  help  and  the  old  lady's  cold,  silent 
presence,  to  see  now  beyond  the  end.  In  con- 
formity with  her  ideas  of  responsibility  to  the 
dead  and  to  the  living,  she  had  put  off  her  rags 
and  dirt,  and — the  last  sacrifice  of  her  unselfish 
heart — had  put  on  a  new  black  dress,  white  neck- 
erchief, and  "tignon" — her  own  grave-clothes, 
bought  with  cold  and  starvation,  and  guarded  re- 
ligiously through  years  of  vagabondage  for  her 
final  apparelling. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 
demanded  the  imperious  visitor. 

"  Me,  ma'am  ?     I  am  the  madam's  servant." 

"  You  lie  !  You  know  you  lie  !  The  madam 
never  owned  a  servant  like  you." 


I06  BONNE   MAMAN. 

"  I  never  said  the  madam  owned  me ;  I  said  I 
was  her  servant ;  she  hired  me." 

It  looked  as  if  the  visitor  could  find  no  ade- 
quate expression  for  the  passion  that  raged  in 
her.  She  shook  her  fist  at  the  bare  cold  walls, 
she  stamped  on  the  rough,  uncovered  floor,  she 
caught  sight  of  the  jewels  on  her  arms,  and  hurled 
the  massive  bracelets  away  from  her,  she  tore 
open  her  dress  to  ease  her  swelling  throat,  and 
her  bosom  panted  violently  under  crushed  garni- 
tures of  soft  white  lace.  She  fell  down  by  the 
coffin  again,  and,  bursting  into  tears,  hid  her  face 
in  the  darned,  worn,  white  "  blouse  volante " 
shroud,  moaning,  with  long,  wailing  cries,  "  Mam- 
zelle  Nenaine  !     Mamzelle  Nenaine  !" 

"Where  are  her  friends?" 

"  Please,  ma'am,  she  'ain't  got  no  friends,  ex- 
cepting the  apothecary  gentleman  at  the  corner. 
He  was  mighty  good  and  kind ;  he  come  when  I 
went  for  him,  and  he  stayed  all  night." 

"  But,  my  God  !  where  are  her  relations  ?" 

"  I  'ain't  never  heerd  of  any  relations  besides 
the  mamzelle — Mamzelle  Claire." 

"Mademoiselle  Claire!  Claire  Blanche .^  Mon- 
sieur Edgar's  baby  ?" 

She  was  silent  again,  as  if  unable  to  compre- 
hend it. 

"  And  God  allowed  this  !  How  long  have  they 
been  living  here — here  in  this  cabin  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am  ;  it's  nigh  on  to  three 


BONNE   MAMAN.  107 

years  sence  I've  been  with  them,  and  they've 
been  here  all  that  time." 

The  stranger  looked  up  to  heaven  with  a  mut- 
tered blasphemous  adjuration. 

Betsy  had  been  gazing  with  her  keen  eyes  as 
if  into  a  murky  depth  ;  then  a  cloud  seemed  to 
have  passed  away  from  the  sun,  for  the  room 
was  a  little  lighter.  "  I  see  you  now,"  she  said, 
in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "I  didn't  see  you  before, 
the  room  was  so  dark."  Throwing  away  all  ef- 
fort at  self-restraint,  raising  her  whisper  into  a 
command :  "  Clear  out  from  this  room  !  How  dare 
you  show  your  face  here  !  Clear  out,  I  tell  you, 
before—" 

"  Ha  !"  exclaimed  the  woman.  The  exclama- 
tion had  a  dangerous  intonation,  a  menace  of 
one  fearless  and  unscrupulous. 

"  Go  out  of  that  door,  I  tell  you  !"  Betsy  in- 
creased her  distinctness  and  determination. 
"  Don't  you  dare  look  at  the  face  of  my  madam ! 
Don't  you  dare  touch  her  again  !" 

"  Your  madam  !     Your  madam  !" 

The  stranger  cursed  her  with  a  French  im- 
precation. "Don't  you  dare  call  her  your  madam ! 
She  was  my  madam  !  I  was  her  Aza  !  I  belonged 
to  her.  I  was  given  to  her  before  I  was  a  day 
old.  I  slept  by  the  side  of  her  bed ;  she  carried 
me  around  in  her  little  arms  like  a  doll;  she  raised 
me  like  her  child ;  she  was  my  godmother ;  she 
set  me  free.     I  loved  her,  I  worshipped  her.     O 


I03  BONNE   MAMAN. 

God,  how  I  worshipped  her  !  Mamzelle  Nenaine, 
you  know  it  is  true  !  Mamzelle  Ne'naine,  if  you 
could  speak  to  Aza  once  more  !  Just  one  word ! — 
just  one  word  !" 

A  torrent  of  tears  choked  her  voice.  Betsy 
recoiled  in  horror. 

"  Your  madam  !  Your —  My  God  in  heaven  ! 
And  she  lay  a- dying  here,  and  the  mamzelle 
a-starving,  and  you  her  servant,  what  belonged 
to  her,  in  that  house  over  there  !  You !  a-scan- 
dalizing,  a-rioting,  a-frolicking,  a-flaunting  your- 
self in  carriages,  you  and  your  gals,  right  past 
this  house  !  a-carrying  on  3'our  devilment  right 
out  there,  and  your  mistress  a-slaving  and  a-starv- 
ing !  You!  You  nigger!"  The  old  woman's 
crooked  back  straightened  until  she  could  look 
the  quadroon  straight  in  the  eye. 

"  You — you  are  not  that — " 

"  Yes,  I  am  !  Yes,  I  am  that  same  dirty,  stink- 
ing old  rag-picker  what  did  scrubbing  for  you. 
Not  for  me,  mind  you  !  but  to  buy  medicine  for 
the  poor  old  madam  there ;  a-lowering  myself  for 
her,  a-dying  and  starving  and  freezing,  while  you 
was  throwing  away  in  the  streets  the  money  you 
stole  out  of  the  pockets  of  them  white  men  !" 

"  Hush !    Oh,  for  God's  sake,  don't  talk  so  loud!" 

"  And  last  night,  when  the  end  come — when 
the  end  come,  I  tell  you — with  the  piano  music 
a-pounding  up  the  street,  and  the  hollering  and 
the  laughing,  and  the  poor  mamzelle — " 


BONNE    IMAMAN. 


109 


"Mademoiselle  Claire  Blanche?"  repeated  the 
quadroon,  vaguely. 

Betsy  misunderstood  her  meaning. 

"  The  last  thing  before  the  madam  there  died, 
when  your  music  and  your  devilment  was  going 
on  the  loudest,  I  told  her — I  told  her  I  v/ould 
look  after  the  mamzelle  the  same  as  if  I  were  her 
boughten  slave ;  and  I'm  going  to  do  it.  And  I 
tell  you,  nigger,  standing  there  before  me  in  all 
your  brazenness  and  finery  and  sinfulness,  before 
you  so  much  as  speak  to  that  child,  before  you  so 
much  as  touch  the  tip  end  of  her  gown,  you  will 
have  to  trample  the  life  out  of  me  under  your 
feet." 

The  inspired  figure  of  the  black  woman  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  advancing  between  Aza  and 
the  coffin,  pointing  to  the  door.  The  quadroon 
tried  to  glare  back  her  speechless  rage ;  but  the 
arraignment  was  too  crushing,  the  action  too  full 
of  meaning.     She  dropped  her  eyes  in  shame. 

Ashamed  before  whom  ? — a  common  rag-picker 
from  the  streets  !  How  dared  she  steal  the  lan- 
guage and  sentiments  of  the  dead  one  in  the 
coffin,  and  talk  to  her  like  a  mistress  ? — her,  the 
insubordinate,  irreprovable  one  !  With  a  charac- 
teristic gesture  she  threw  her  head  back  again  ; 
but  in  Betsy's  fine,  determined  face,  in  the  holy 
passion  of  her  voice,  in  her  firm,  commanding  eye, 
she  recognized,  not  the  stolen  or  borrowed  prin- 
ciples of  a  white  lady,  but  the  innate  virtue  of  all 


no  BONNE   MAMAN. 

good  women.  She  measured  herself  not  with  her 
dead  mistress,  but  with  Bgtsy,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  her  wild,  daring,  passionate  life  felt  the 
humiliation  of  repentance.  Following  the  direc- 
tion of  the  imperious  black  finger  she  left  the 
room. 

The  day  wore  on  to  the  hour  before  the  funeral. 
Visits  had  ceased,  and  the  silence  of  prayer  was 
in  the  room  about  the  old  lady.  Betsy,  sitting  at 
the  head  of  the  coffin,  fanning  unweariedly,  heard 
in  the  other  room,  where  Claire  was,  the  sound  of 
footsteps,  the  murmuring  of  voices,  and  her  name 
called  with  a  moaning  cry ;  or  she  fancied  she 
heard  it,  for  the  solemnity  and  oppression  of 
death  had  benumbed  her  faculties,  and  she  felt 
uncertain  of  everything.  At  last,  to  end  the 
dream-like  confusion,  she  went  to  see,  and  left 
the  old  lady,  for  the  first  time  that  day,  as  much 
alone  as  if  she  were  already  in  her  grave. 

The  children — a  hushed,  awed  band  crouching 
on  the  steps  outside  around  a  white  tissue-paper 
bundle,  had  been  peeping,  and  waiting  long  for 
this  opportunity.  It  came  now,  to  paralyze  them 
with  faintness  and  fear.  At  first  they  could  make 
no  impression  on  the  green  door  v/ith  their  trem- 
bling fingers,  all  holding  their  breath,  and  work- 
ing at  it  at  once.  Then  it  slowly  yielded,  opening 
to  them  the  darkened  chamber  within.  They  all 
stood  up  to  follow,  as  they  had  promised  one 
another,  but  when  the  door  swung  to  again  they 


BONNE   MAM  AN.  m 

were  still  in  their  places  outside.  All  but  one — 
the  bundle-bearer,  an  appalled,  scrawny,  ragged, 
wild  little  creature  with  black,  unkempt  head  and 
yellow  skin,  naked  arms,  shivering,  bare  legs,  and 
feet  clinging  to  the  floor;  with  white  teeth  clinched, 
and  fear-distended  eyes  looking  anywhere  but  at 
that  undefined  object  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
It  took  an  eternity  to  cross  the  space  to  it,  and 
yet  the  eternity  ended  too  soon,  it  ended  too  soon. 
A  barrier  stopped  her.  Involuntarily  she  looked 
down.  The  locked  teeth  prevented  the  scream, 
but  in  the  tense  grip  of  her  fingers  the  white 
tissue-paper  gave  way,  and  for  the  second  time 
that  day  the  orange-blossoms  fell,  but  this  time 
to  break  with  eloquent  fragrance  the  damp  still- 
ness of  death,  enshrouding  the  rigid  form  in  their 
loveliness,  and  crowning  with  a  virgin  anadem  the 
earth-worn  face  looking  heavenward  through  its 
last  human  experience — of  love,  not  hate.  The 
door  slammed  behind  the  fleeing  messenger,  still 
grasping  her  fragments  of  paper,  and  the  children 
sped  away  again  to  their  distant  corner  of  obser- 
vation. 

Betsy  was  not  mistaken  ;  the  bedchamber  was 
filled  with  people — ladies  and  gentlemen  whisper- 
ing and  moving  around,  calling  Claire  by  name, 
laying  caressing  hands  on  her  head  and  shoul- 
ders. The  girl  only  crouched  lower  by  the  side 
of  the  bed,  and  pressed  her  closed  eyes  tighter 


112  BONNE    MAMAN. 

against  the  pillow  taken  from  under  bonne  ma- 
man's  head,  and  moaned,  "  Ah,  Betsie  !  Betsie  !" 

Betsy  looked  around  in  amazement. 

"  If  you  please  to  walk  into  the  next  room — " 
she  began ;  but  seeing  that  they  persisted  in  try- 
ing to  arouse  Claire,  she  pushed  through  them, 
and  placing  herself  in  front  of  the  girl,  said,  quer- 
ulously, "Let  the  mamzelle  alone ;  she's  not  harm- 
ing any  one ;  what  do  you  want  to  bother  her  for  ?" 

She  could  not  understand  their  explanations 
at  first,  being  dull  and  dazed  with  fatigue  and 
excitement. 

But  when  she  did  the  joy  in  her  heart  weak- 
ened her.  She  bent  over  and  steadied  her  trem- 
bling hand  on  Claire's  head.  "  Child,  they  is  all 
your  kin ;  done  found  you  out.  Honey,  they 
wants  to  know  you.  Honey,  they  wants  to  love 
you." 

But  the  head  only  went  deeper  into  the  pillow. 

"  You  must  excuse  her,"  she  said,  looking 
around,  anxious  to  excuse  the  offence.  "  You 
must  really  excuse  her;  she  don't  know,  herself, 
what  she's  doing.  She  'ain't  lifted  her  head  from 
that  pillow  sence  last  night." 

After  a  pause  of  decorous  silence,  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  as  they  will  do  at  funerals,  recom- 
menced their  whispering.  It  was  excusable  this 
time,  the  first  gathering  of  a  family  which  had 
been  separated  by  the  whirlwind  of  revolution  a 
decade  ago.     There  was  much  to  talk  over  and 


BONNE   MAMAN.  113 

a  long  roll  of  the  dead  to  call ;  but  chiefly  there 
was  to  recount  to  one  another,  each  version  char- 
acter-tinged, their  utter  dismay  at  the  intelligence 
brought  them  by  Aza  that  day.  How  like  a  fiery 
cross  she  had  carried  the  tale  around  from  one 
household  to  the  other,  and  had  rallied  them 
once  again  around  the  old  standard  of  family 
pride  and  family  love.  With  what  passionate  elo- 
quence had  she  told  them  of  the  death  of  bonne 
maman — of  bonne  maman  whom  they  had  sup- 
posed living  at  ease  in  France  !  Dead  !  here  !  a 
wretched,  forsaken  exile  in  their  own  city.  Dead! 
in  the  very  reach  of  their  hand,  in  the  sound  of 
their  voice.  Dead !  without  a  friend  !  she,  whom 
living,  not  so  very  long  ago  after  all,  they  had 
surrounded,  a  crowd  of  eager,  obsequious  court- 
iers. They  spoke  of  the  old  plantation  days,  with 
its  magnificent,  luxurious,  thoughtless  hospitality; 
of  the  ancient,  aristocratic  distinction  of  a  name 
which  had  been  a  knightly  pledge  in  two  coun- 
tries; and  they  looked  at  the  little  room  with  its 
inexorable  revelations.  In  the  exaltation  of  quick- 
ening emotion  they  forgot  to  whisper.  Vying  in 
their  efforts  to  atone  for  the  present,  they  brought 
from  their  memory  such  glorious  tributes  that  the 
old  lady  in  her  pine  coffin  appeared  clad  in  gar- 
ments bright  enough  then  and  there  for  a  bodily 
ascension  to  heaven.  Pride  and  reserve  were 
sacrificed,  painful  secrets  hinted  at  in  this  holy 
revival  that  all  might  be  said,  now  that  it  was 


114  BONNE   MAMAN, 

too  late  for  anything  to  be  done  ;  until  it  became 
evident,  as  evident  as  the  misery  surrounding 
them,  that  in  their  own  persons  or  the  persons  of 
dead  parents  they  were  bonded  by  unpaid  dues 
of  fealty  and  obligation  to  their  deceased  kins- 
woman, or,  failing  her,  to  the  shrinking,  cowering, 
fair-haired  girl  kneeling  by  the  bed. 

A  quadroon  woman  in  the  corner,  dressed  in 
the  old  servile  costume,  listened  in  bitter  weep- 
ing. At  the  grating  sound  of  wheels  outside  she 
arose  and  crossed  the  room.  Calling  them  by 
name,  Master  this  and  Mistress  that,  she  pointed 
to  Betsy,  and  in  hurried,  broken  tones  related  the 
simple  facts  of  her  devoted  service  to  those  who 
owned  her  only  by  virtue  of  their  dependence, 
who  could  pay  her  only  with  their  thanks.  In  a 
wild,  penitent  way  she  was  adding  more,  but  Betsy, 
listening  to  one  and  to  the  other,  tears  running 
unheeded  down  her  cheeks  onto  her  white  hand- 
kerchief, raised  her  voice  also,  and,  after  several 
attempts,  succeeded  in  saying,  "And  the  apothe- 
cary gentleman  at  the  corner,  he  was  mighty  good 
and  kind ;  he  come  when  I  went  for  him,  and  he 
stayed  all  night." 

The  sincere  tones  and  voices,  in  which  ever 
and  anon  came  a  chord  like  bonne  maman's, 
penetrated,  in  spite  of  the  pillow,  to  Claire's  ears, 
and  won  her  to  listen.  Such  glorious,  tender 
homage  to  her  whom  she  bitterly  supposed  un- 
known, uncared-for,  abandoned    even    by   God, 


BONNE    MAM  AN.  115 

raised  her  head  as  if  by  enchantment.  She  arose 
in  an  excitement  of  love  and  gratitude,  showing 
all  her  people  her  sad,  emaciated  beauty,  her  out- 
worn, out -grown,  wretched  clothing,  and  when 
they  all  rushed  forward  impulsively  to  embrace 
her,  she  clung  to  them  as  indeed  to  the  success- 
ors of  bonne  maman. 

A  pauper's  funeral  had  been  ordered  by  the 
kind  apothecary,  but  the  family  and  friends  sum- 
moned by  Aza  formed  a  cortege  that  filled  the 
little  street,  and  the  service  in  the  mortuary  chapel 
where  Aza  directed  the  hearse  to  stop  was  such  as 
only  the  wealthiest  could  command.  At  the  end 
of  the  procession  w^alked — where  had  Aza  found 
them  all  so  quickly? — a  retinue  of  old  slaves,  the 
last,  highest  local  affirmation  of  family  worth ; 
among  them,  one  of  them,  in  costume,  race,  con- 
dition, was  Aza  herself,  bearing  the  conventional 
black  and  white  bead  memorial  "  Priez  pour 
moi." 

It  was  late  in  the  night,  when  the  deserted 
streets  promised  security  from  recognition,  that 
she  hastened  through  them  and  entered,  secretly, 
the  little  back  gate-w-ay  of  the  triangular  fence 
in  her  slavish  dress,  worn  for  the  last  time.  The 
piano  had  already  commenced  its  dances. 


MADRILENE; 

OR, 

THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD. 


MADRILENE  ;   OR,  THE   FESTIVAL  OF 
THE   DEAD. 

^^^^OTHING  was  silent  about  the  old 
cemetery  but  the  dead  themselves — 
nothing  respectable  ,•  all  the  noises 
and  confusions  that  had  harassed 
them  in  life  were  here  to  harrow  the 
atmosphere  above  their  rest  in  death ;  all  the 
mould  and  ugliness  of  an  undergrowth  popula- 
tion, which  their  living  feet  had  avoided,  lay  thick 
and  fetid  all  round  about  the  walls  ramparted 
with  tombs  that  enclosed  them  now. 

The  city  had  grown  densely  around  the  ceme- 
tery, but  the  houses  had  backed  up  or  sidled  up, 
as  it  were,  not  caring  to  face  their  grim  neighbor. 
Those  which  by  necessity  did  face  it  had  the  as- 
pect of  houses  accustomed  to  look  at  worse  things 
in  life  than  death — houses  that  had  not  enjoyed 
the  sad  privilege  of  falling  from  a  higher  estate 
or  disappointing  hopeful  prospects,  but  which 
had  been  preordained  from  the  beginning  to  deg- 
radation and  ostracism. 

A  broad  space  had  been  left  in  front  by  the 
city  ancestors  for  some  beautiful  boulevard  or 


120  MADRILiNE  j 

funeral  parade-ground,  but  it  had  become  an 
unsightly  waste,  a  "  common "  for  street  chil- 
dren, a  lounging- place  for  social  refuse,  a  me- 
dium for  back-door  convivialities  and  intrigues,  a 
dumping -ground  for  unmagazinable  traffic,  and 
the  lower  end  of  it  the  landing -wharf  for  a 
schooner  fleet,  which  discharged  daily  cargoes  of 
lumber,  brick,  and  charcoal  onto  the  frazzled 
grass,  and  daily  crews  of  negroes,  "  dagos,"  and 
roughs  into  the  ill-favored  coffee-houses  at  the 
corners. 

Up  in  the  air  the  thin  fine  spars  of  the  vessels 
could  be  seen  coming  in  from  the  distance  along 
the  invisible  canal,  gliding  into  and  out  of  occul- 
tation,  past  trees  and  houses  and  open  garden 
spots,  and  past  the  cemetery.  And  sometimes 
they  seemed  sailing  or  being  cordelled  straight 
through  the  cemetery ;  and  then,  by  a  fancy,  the 
masts  and  spars  looked  as  if  they  might  be 
anchored  there  with  their  vessels,  and  the  marble 
crosses,  spires,  and  angels,  and  effigies  as  if  they 
might  be  moving,  gliding  along  in  the  air,  sailing 
on  through  and  above  the  noisome  foulness  of 
the  place,  with  its  unwholesome  effluvice  of  cor- 
rupting morals,  carrying  their  freight  over  an  in- 
visible canal  to  some  pure,  quiet,  serene,  distant 
basin.  It  was  a  closed  cemetery  lifetimes  ago ; 
burial  in  it  had  become  an  inheritance,  or  a  priv- 
ilege of  society  partnership,  the  funerals  dwindling 
away  into   a  steady,  slow  monotony,  calculable 


OR,   THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    PEAD.  121 

to  a  fractional  certainty.  On  Sundays  and  holi- 
days, with  strange,  inexplicable  regularity,  the 
societaire,  funerals,  with  music  and  banners  and 
regalia  and  unlimited  carriages,  conducted  by 
drivers  of  unlimited  thirst,  to  the  great  pecuniary 
profit  of  the  coffee-houses.  Once  a  month,  or 
perhaps  not  quite  so  often,  there  was  a  last  pomp- 
ous effort  of  some  of  the  old  elite,  well  worth  look- 
ing at,  if  only  for  the  ecclesiastical  demonstration 
and  the  flowers  and  the  sedate  affectations  of  the 
Sunday  tippling  drivers.  Oftenest,  however,  so 
fortunes  change,  it  was  the  hearse  and  single  car- 
riage affair,  with  a  fragmentary  procession  on 
foot,  the  furtive,  almost  surreptitious,  admittance 
of  the  poverty  as  well  as  death  stricken  heir  or 
heiress  to  the  ancestral  sepulchre.  And  even 
these  were  interesting,  particularly  in  a  crisis  of 
quiet  in  the  neighborhood,  or  on  rainy  days,  for 
the  poor  seem  always  to  be  buried  on  rainy  days, 
as  the  society  members  on  holidays. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  guarantee  of  daily  pleasure 
food  which  made  the  houses  in  the  locality  at- 
tractive as  residences.  Sure  it  is  that  the  neces- 
sity of  living  in  that  one  spot  became  the  tyr- 
annous necessity  of  a  vice  to  those  who  once 
adopted  it.  When  vacancies  sometimes  occurred 
in  the  shambling  tenements  through  rent  failure 
of  tenant  or  patience  failure  of  landlord,  the  billet 
seldom  remained  long  over  the  threshold.  If  it 
were  not  a  place  for  the  industrious,  it  neverthe- 


122  MADRILENE; 

less  required  a  certain  amount  of  industry  to 
live  up  to  the  daily  advantages  of  idleness ;  and 
the  countenances  of  the  people  thereabouts,  if 
they  did  not  show  the  fatness  of  good  living, 
showed  neither  the  inert  vacuity  of  the  pleasure- 
starved. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  October,  in  its  beautiful 
morning,  with  but  the  gentlest  suggestions  of  au- 
tumn radiating  through  the  atmosphere.  The 
long,  lingering  summer  had  faded  away  like  the 
febrile  dream  of  an  over-luxurious  night  which 
leaves  the  mind  tranquil  but  alert,  the  body  ener- 
vated but  pleased.  The  fine  weather  for  "  la 
Toussaint "  has  passed  into  proverb. 

La  Toussaint,  the  Festival  of  the  Dead,  is  the 
ietepar  excellence  of  the  city.  It  is  a  day  encrys- 
tallized  by  time  and  sentiment  with  poetic  super- 
stitions and  custom ;  the  one  day  upon  which 
the  cemeteries  resurrect  out  of  the  things  they 
are,  and  become  the  things  they  should  be  :  radi- 
ant sanctuaries,  exhaling  beauty,  purity,  and  fra- 
grance;  when  the  dead — the  impotent,  despised 
dead — lie  enchased  in  their  tombs  like  saints  in 
their  shrines,  to  be  propitiated  with  flowers  and 
importuned  with  prayers.  It  is  the  one  day  in 
the  city  during  which  the  glittering  supremacy 
of  wealth  is  nullified ;  when  not  he  who  lives 
finely,  but  he  who  is  buried  finely  is  envied ; 
when  the  good  families  of  the  past  are  compared 
with  the  parvenus  of  the  present ;  when  old  ro- 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  123 

mances  and  histories  enjoy  an  annual  blossoming 
out  of  the  names  on  the  mortuary  tablets. 

"Oh  yes,  they  zxo. grand'' chose  now,  but  show  me 
where  their  dead  are  buried."  The  most  ordinary 
servant  felt  herself  in  a  position  to  make  that  re- 
mark, and  gossiping  tongues,  whose  usual  voca- 
tion was  to  spread  reports  of  shameful  neglect  of 
the  living,  on  this  day  busied  themselves  about 
the  more  shameful  neglect  of  the  dead — if  such 
cases  ever  occurred.  And  those  waifs  and  strays 
who  begin  life  in  the  maternity  ward  and  end  it 
on  the  dissecting-table  of  the  hospital,  and  those 
vague  asylum  humanities  who  date  from  nothing 
recordable  but  a  parent's  death  or  desertion,  and 
even  the  criminals  who  have  suicided  from  the 
moral  life  of  their  kind — at  no  other  time  do  they 
feel  their  deprived  condition  as  on  this  day. 
And  some — the  cunning  ones — go  so  far  as  to 
affect  graves  they  do  not  possess,  and  sally  forth 
on  the  morning  of  All-Saints  with  the  emblems 
of  remembrances  and  regrets  they  have  never 
known,  "just  like  other  Christians,"  as  the  local 
comparison  is. 

Coming  at  a  season  when  strangers  yet  shun 
the  place,  there  is  no  festival  that  calls  out  as  it 
does  the  full  muster  of  the  populace — a  populace 
of  unfermented  original  types,  strong  and  full 
with  the  salient  untempered  flavors  of  race  in- 
gredients, a  vin  brut  of  humanity. 

And  if  the  festival  could  rouse  a  whole  city  to 


124  MADRILENE  j 

intensity  of  excitement,  what  must  it  produce  in 
the  neighborhood  of  a  cemetery,  and  a  cemetery 
the  oldest,  most  aristocratic,  and  most  important 
of  the  city?  And  if  November  first  were  such  a 
day,  what  must  the  last  of  October  be,  when,  from 
local  appearances,  the  whole  world  seemed  to 
have  been  caught  procrastinating,  and  had  but  a 
few  fleeting  hours  to  prepare  their  tombs  for  the 
morrow's  judgment  ?  Such  hurry  !  Such  mad- 
dening confusion  ! 

In  the  cemetery  itself  the  most  extraordinary 
"house -cleaning"  was  in  process,  such  white- 
washing of  stucco,  scrubbing  of  marble,  reddening 
of  brick  pavements,  cutting  of  grass,  trimming  of 
shrubbery,  spreading  of  clean  white  sand  over 
walks,  and  laying  parterres  off  in  fanciful  designs 
with  little  shells,  and  such  transplanting  of  bloom- 
ing bushes  of  marguerites,  roses,  and  borders  of 
violets  into  sterile  beds !  And  the  voices  order- 
ing, protesting,  wrangling,  hurrying,  scolding,  di- 
recting !  One  would  think  they  never  had  had 
more  than  a  day  to  prepare  in. 

Outside,  on  the  banquette  was  the  usual  market 
sf ene  of  everything  that  could  be  required  in  to- 
day's confusion  for  to-morrow's  ornament:  hil- 
locks of  sand  and  shells,  flowers  in  pots,  or  torn 
up  by  the  roots,  or  loose  in  baskets,  or  wired 
around  stiff  forms — marguerites,  dahlias  (white, 
yellow,  and  purple),  and  amaranths,  dropping 
over  with  their  bulky,  fleshy,  rich  redness ;  care- 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  125 

fully  guarded  trays  of  plaster  angels,  Madonnas, 
infant  Jesuses,  Saviours,  and  saints,  all  fashioned 
in  Italian  likenesses  and  clothed  with  Italian 
gorgeousness.  And  all  the  length  of  the  wall, 
hung  on  nails,  wreaths,  crosses,  hearts,  anchors, 
fabricated  of  curled  glazed  paper,  black  or  white, 
or  black  and  white  mixed,  or  of  flowers  ;  white 
roses  with  black  leaves,  or  black  roses  with  white 
leaves,  or  of  dried  immortelles  (purple,  black, 
white),  all  tied  with  shining  satin  ribbon,  gayly 
fluttering  in  the  breeze,  carrying  their  legends  in 
gold  and  silver  printing.  And  there  were  not 
wanting,  also,  these  for  the  millionaire  griefs,  so 
to  speak — handsome,  elaborate,  bead  memorials, 
jingling  and  showy,  carrying  their  succinctly 
pictured  desolation  in  a  medallion  in  the  centre : 
a  tomb,  a  weeping-willow,  and  a  weeping  figure, 
addressed  in  letters  around  the  rim  to  all  the 
different  mortuary  members  of  the  human  family, 
with  all  manner  of  passionate  invocations  from 
the  bereavable  human  heart. 

And  wherever  one  could  edge  herself  in,  sat 
old  negro  women  in  tignons,  before  waiters  of 
pralines,  molasses  and  cocoa-nut  candy,  or  pans 
of  pain  pafafc,  or  skillets  of  dough-nuts  frying 
over  lighted  furnaces ;  keeping  the  flies  and  the 
gamins  off  with  long  whisks  of  split  palmetto, 
while  they  nodded  their  heavy  sleepy  heads.  All 
the  venders  crying  their  wares  at  once,  in  the  de- 
teriorated traditions  or  personal  perversions  of 


126  MADRILENE; 

half  a  score  of  dialects,  with  a  vociferousness  and 
persistence  that  proclaimed  the  transient  nature 
of  the  opportunity. 

The  coffee-houses  at  the  corner  kept  up  their 
usual  steady  holiday  business,  realcoholizing  their 
patrons  and  turning  them  out  to  doze  through 
the  time  between  drams  on  the  convenient  bench 
under  the  awning,  or  to  digest  in  one  long  glutton- 
ous sleep  on  the  grass  their  one  long  gluttonous 
drink,  or  only  slightly  exhilarated  to  drift  as  far  as 
the  planked  crossing,  where  a  hilarious  crowd  was 
gathering  around  a  quadroon  lad,  who  held  the 
only  novel  feature  of  the  day — a  monkey  in  leash. 

The  long,  lean,  lanky  animal  climbed  and 
sprang  unceasingly  at  the  end  of  its  tether,  col- 
lecting an  unfailing  toll  of  screams  and  fright 
from  the  passers-by,  responding  with  human  ea- 
gerness to  the  prompt  applause  of  its  malice. 
"Loulou,"  whispered  a  little  negro  to  the  quad- 
roon, "look!" — he  pointed  to  a  figure  just  turn- 
ing in  from  the  corner — "  Madrilene  !'' 

The  girl's  height  enabled  her  to  carry  her  long, 
flat  basket  easily  above  the  heads  of  the  people 
who  streamed  over  the  plank  walk  with  her  on 
their  way  to  the  cemetery.  The  stiff  funereal 
glazed  paper  wreaths  piled  in  her  basket  stood 
out  in  ghastly  becomingness  above  a  face  which, 
though  young,  seemed  created  to  be  overshad- 
owed by  the  emblems  of  death :  a  thin,  scraped 
profile   skin   sallow  to    blackness,   hollow   eyes, 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD. 


127 


brooding  brows,  a  mouth  held  rigid  and  expres- 
sionless by  determination,  and  eyes  fixed  in  stud- 
ied abstraction.  As  she  came  closer  to  view, 
her  costume  seemed  not  less  appropriate  to  her 
burden  than  her  face :  her  worn  shoes,  faded 
stuff  skirt,  shrunken  sacque,  and  the  ragged  ban- 
danna kerchief  tied  not  around  her  head,  but  un- 
der her  chin. 

She  arrived  opposite  the  ill-behaved  group  of 
'men  and  boys. 

"  File  !"'  whispered  Loulou  to  the  monkey  in 
his  arms. 

But  the  wily  animal  mistook  the  aim,  or  sub- 
stituted another  one.  He  jumped  not  to  Madri- 
lene's  basket,  but  to  the  head  of  an  unsuspecting 
child  walking  in  front  of  her,  and  there  poised 
himself,  arching  his  serpentine  tail  around  his 
bald,  ashen-gray  face,  peering  over  at  the  child, 
and  grinning  at  the  terrified  screams  that  fell 
upon  the  air. 

Madrilene's  expression  changed  to  one  of  pure 
rage.  She  threw  her  basket  to  the  ground,  and, 
as  quickly  as  the  animal  himself  could  have  done 
so,  she  caught  the  monkey  around  the  neck, 
throttling  him  as  she  dragged  him  off. 

"  Stop,  stop,  Madrilene  !  Curse  you  !  stop  !" 
screamed  the  quadroon  boy,  running  to  the  res- 
cue of  his  pet.  "  Stop  !  You  are  choking  him 
to  death !" 

She  flung  the  monkey  to  the  ground  to  seize 


128  madrilene; 

the  boy's  head  by  the  short,  black,  curly  hair. 
She  slapped  him  vigorously.  "  Dare  !  dare  !'' 
she  said,  "dare  frighten  white  children  again  !" 

The  monkey — his  simulated  distress  had  been 
but  another  evidence  of  his  versatile  talents — 
bounded  nimbly  from  the  ground,  amid  the  loud 
admiring  laughter  of  the  crowd. 

The  boy,  who  had  lain  resistless  enough  in 
Madrilene's  grasp,  recovered  himself  as  soon  as 
released.  Construing  the  laughter  behind  him 
as  mockery  to  himself,  he  furiously  sought  to  re- 
cover his  lost  prestige.  Shaking  his  fist  at  the 
back  of  the  girl,  he  shouted  after  her  : 

"  Mulatresse  !  nigger  !  nigger  !  'coon  !  'coon  !" 
(a  localism  of  irritating  significance  to  the  col- 
ored), adding  other  insolences  of  his  quick  and 
ready  invention ;  and  the  insolences  of  his  class 
are  the  unrepeatable  of  language. 

The  crowd  paid  no  attention.  It  was  only  the 
usual  street  quarrel  to  them,  pursued  with  the 
characteristic  violence  of  the  colored.  The  girl 
walked  away  unheedingly.  She  paused  at  the 
corner,  hesitating  between  two  courses,  and  then 
slowly,  as  if  yielding  to  temptation,  turned  to  the 
right  towards  the  iron  cross  that  rose  above  the 
gate  of  the  cemetery. 

Almost  unnoticed  in  the  voluble  excitement 
around  it,  a  funeral  was  driving  up. 

A  hush  spread  over  the  banquette,  pantomime 
paused,  and  instantaneously  a  hedge  of  specta- 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  129 

tors  was  formed  on  each  side  of  the  entrance,  from 
which,  with  that  never-sated  curiosity  of  the  Hving 
about  the  dead,  eager  heads  craned  forward  to 
look. 

Madrilene  waited,  watching  the  slow  backing 
up  of  the  hearse  until,  struck  by  a  thought,  she 
turned  her  head  towards  the  cemetery  gate,  glan- 
cing into  it.  "  Where  was  the  sexton.  Monsieur 
Sacerdote  ?" 

Pushing  her  way  out  of  the  throng,  she  ran 
quickly  across  the  cleared  space  into  the  enclos- 
ure and  down  a  path.  It  had  been  designed  for 
a  brave,  fine  cemetery  —  a  fit  repository  for  the 
mortal  remains  of  aristocracy  and  wealth,  with 
handsome  monuments,  broad  avenues,  gentle  vis- 
tas, and  pleasing  perspectives.  There  were  some 
costly  family  mausoleums  in  it  and  palatial  soci- 
ety sepulchres — huge  mortuary  hotels  ;  but  death 
had  been  too  indiscriminate  and  too  busy ;  and 
periodic  epidemics  in  the  past  had  annulled  all 
plans  and  calculations.  It  showed  now  the  con- 
fused plenum  of  a  caravansary  into  which  tired, 
pilgrims  had  been  driven  by  stress  of  weather  or 
nightfall,  glad  to  huddle  themselves  together  pell- 
mell,  in  any  position,  confident  only  of  their  fa- 
tigue and  slumber.  Whichever  way  a  coffin  could 
be  placed  upon  the  earth,  there  had  arisen  a  tomb' 
over  it ;  and  vaults  had  been  arched  upon  vaults, 
rising  higher  and  higher,  stretching  their  buriali 
capacity  in  the  only  direction  left  them. 


I30  MADRILiNE ; 

In  the  early  days  the  sexton  could  not  be  too 
young,  strong,  and  vigorous  for  his  work.  Now 
it  was  a  mere  somnolent  porter's  task  to  sit  in- 
side the  lodge  day  after  day,  waiting  for  an  order 
to  open  a  tomb  here,  or  a  certificate  that  time,  by 
making  a  vacancy,  authorized  a  new  lease  there. 
And  Monsieur  Sacerdote  —  Fan  tome  Sacerdote, 
as  the  people  pronounced  the  "  Vendome  "  of  his 
name — octogenarian,  and  decrepit  to  the  verge 
of  vital  tenuity,  did  not  find  his  physical  func- 
tions taxed  by  his  office. 

It  was  not  an  easy  labyrinth  for  the  feet  to 
unravel.  Life  itself  had  not  more  vicissitudes 
than  the  gnarled  paths,  with  their  obsolete  grave 
mounds  for  stumbling-blocks,  and  their  fair  open- 
ings dammed  unexpectedly  into  aimless  cids-de- 
sac.  But  Madrilene  ran  through  them  swiftly  and 
easily,  without  pause  or  breath,  looking  sharply 
from  side  to  side,  impatiently  waving  away  arrest- 
ing voices  and  gestures,  venturing  from  time  to 
time  a  whispered  call :  "  Monsieur  Sacerdote  ! 
Monsieur  Sacerdote  !"  She  arrived  fruitlessly,  at 
the  corner  where  a  scrubby  cypress-tree  had  man- 
aged to  rear  itself  to  some  maturity  of  funereal 
foliage,  and  where  the 'tiers  of  rented  mural  sep- 
ulchres ("  ovens,"  they  are  called)  rise  against  the 
terminal  wall.  She  ran  her  eye  along  the  old 
worn  slabs,  with  their  tottering  balustrades  and 
crumbling  bases,  pulled  by  the  sinking  ground  into 
queer  distortions,  like  a  paralytic's  grin.     From 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  131 

the  half-submerged  bottom  to  the  grass-covered 
top  one,  there  was  not  a  gap  in  the  drear  so- 
lidity. 

"  Monsieur  Sacerdote  !"  she  called,  louder. 

There  was  only  the  gay  chattering  of  the  peo- 
ple cleaning  their  tombs  to  be  heard,  and  only 
their  moving  forms  to  be  seen.  The  girl  turned 
into  another  path,  and  after  a  few  steps  almost 
fell  over  the  one  she  sought. 

"  As  I  thought — asleep !"  she  muttered. 

One  could  hardly  have  been  more  so  inside 
the  crumbling  brick  cofhn- shaped  structure  on 
which  the  old  man  lay,  in  face  of  the  tomb  he 
had  just  opened.  His  hat  had  fallen  off,  and  his 
long  white  hair  lay  spread  out  like  some  curious 
lichen  growing  in  the  masonry.  The  warm  sun 
gleamed  on  the  scant  silver  threads  and  shone 
on  the  round,  small,  red,  semi -bald  head,  and 
on  the  face  sinking  into  formlessness  almost  as 
though  corruption  and  not  decrepitude  were  the 
cause.  He  held  a  piece  of  bread  in  his  withered 
hand,  and  the  flies  buzzed  over  him  and  over  the 
contents  of  an  open  tin  bucket  indiscriminately  ; 
and  the  lizards  took  his  figure  in  as  a  matter  of 
course  in  their  frolics  after  the  flies. 

"  He  looks  like  a  runaway  corpse,"  thought  the 
girl.  "  Monsieur  Sacerdote  !"  she  called,  loud- 
ly, to  him  in  French  —  "  Monsieur  Sacerdote !" 
She  shook  him  by  the  shoulder.  "  Awake ! 
awake  !     The  funeral  is  at  the  gate  !" 


132  MADRILENE  ; 

The  old  man's  head  rolled  over  into  another 
position,  and  the  toothless  gums  resumed  their 
suspended  movements  of  mastication.  The  shak- 
ing had  an  effect,  but  deafness  protected  his  ear. 
She  put  her  lips  close  to  it,  and  sinking  her  voice 
to  a  piercing  distinctness,  repeated  : 

"  Wake  !  Get  up  !  The  funeral  is  at  the  gate. 
The  funeral !  the  funeral !" 

"What  is  it,  Marie  Madeleine  ?" 

He  closed  his  eyes  again  after  one  feeble  open- 
ing of  them. 

"  The  funeral !  They  are  looking  for  you  ! 
Run  !     Run  to  meet  them  !" 

"  Eh,  Marie  Madeleine  ?"  He  was  the  only 
one  who  ever  called  her  by  her  name,  instead  of 
by  the  vulgar  contraction  of  it,  and  he  kept  re- 
peating it  over  vaguely,  as  if  it  were  a  part  of  the 
degustation  of  the  bread  in  his  mouth. 

She  got  him  to  a  sitting  posture  and  then  pulled 
him  to  his  feet,  talking,  repeating,  gesticulating, 
coaxing  the  senile  incomprehension  out  of  his 
eyes.  He  finally  started,  as  she  bade  him,  down 
a  certain  path,  trotting,  with  short,  stiff,  rheumatic 
steps. 

"He  will  be  caught  some  day,  and  then,  yes, 
he  will  lose  his  place,  and  he  will  be  sent  to  the 
Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor.  Monsieur  Sacerdote 
with  the  beggars  at  the  Little  Sisters  of  the 
Poor  !" 

In  desperate  hurry  she  began  to  clear  away 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  133 

some  of  the  disorder — hiding  the  tin  bucket,  gath- 
ering up  the  scattered  tools,  sweeping  the  debris 
of  masonry  together.  She  put  her  head  close  to 
the  opening  and  peered  through  the  gloom  into 
the  interior  of  the  tomb.  Undefinable  accumu- 
lations rounded  the  sides  and  filled  the  corners. 
The  far  end  was  hidden  in  darkness,  but  there 
was  a  twilight  path  down  the  swept  centre. 

"  He  has  done,  indeed,  everything.  All  is 
ready.     He  was  only. tired." 

She  worked  over  the  mortar  on  the  board  and 
piled  the  bricks  nearer  to  hand. 

Never  could  guests  arrive  more  inopportunely 
than  a  funeral  at  the  cemetery  at  such  an  hour. 
The  procession  was  long  in  coming.  The  pall- 
bearers carried  their  difficult  load  slowly  through 
the  hard  extremities  of  narrow  spaces  and  sudden 
angles,  made  still  harder  by  standing  buckets  of 
whitewash,  pavements  slippery  with  soapsuds, 
and  unremoved  heaps  of  trash.  All  the  bustling 
workers  had  to  jump  into  attitudes  of  respect— 
the  women,  simulating  prayers  with  their  lips, 
while  secretly  tugging  at  their  skirts;  the  men 
gingerly  taking  off  their  hats  with  their  soiled  fin- 
gers; the  street  urchins  hurried  away  from  their 
momentary  jobs,  around  by-paths,  into  advanta- 
geous positions  whence  they  could  make  grimaces 
and  signs  at  the  tormented-looking  acolytes. 

Marie  Madeleine  stepped  back  as  the  priest 
appeared,  and  put  herself  in  a  corner  where  she 


134  MADRILENE  ; 

could  see,  but  not  be  seen.  Her  figure  was  so 
frail  and  slight  it  looked  like  a  shadow  thrown 
where  she  stood  ;  her  face  like  a  relievo  ornament 
cut  into  the  marble  against  which  it  leaned.  The 
dazzling  white  surface,  illumined  by  the  full  rays 
of  the  sun,  made  distinct  the  ordinarily  insignifi- 
cant minutix  of  her  features,  revealing  some  of 
the  mysteries  of  character  and  age  which  make 
up  expression — the  softness  under  the  chin  ;  the 
deep  indenture  of  the  upper  lip;  the  sharp  claw 
scratches  on  the  lower ;  straight,  outstanding  eye- 
lashes, an  irregularity  in  the  line  of  the  nose ;  the 
unfleshed  cheek-bone;  the  thin,  bruised  rather 
than  dark-looking  skin  ;  the  opaque,  dry,  burned- 
out  eye-sockets  ;  the  eyes  black  and  disturbed, 
not  with  hidden  conflicts  and  rebellions,  but  car- 
rying, like  godless  worlds,  their  unshaped  con- 
tents in  chaos.  She  had  pushed  her  kerchief 
from  her  head ;  short  rumpled  strands  of  ill-kept 
black  hair  fell  over  her  forehead  and  behind  her 
ears. 

"  Her  first  evening  here  !  All  clean  and  beau- 
tiful and  bright !  She  comes  to  her  tomb  like  a 
bride  to  her  home,  and  to-morrow  it  will  be  all 
flowers  and  ornaments  and  burning  candles,  like 
a  celebration  in  her  honor.  Her  family  will  come 
year  after  year  to  lay  flowers  under  her  name. 
Her  friends  will  pass  by  her  tomb  every  All- 
Saints  and  talk  about  her.  And  her  family  will 
die,  one  after  the  other,  and  they  will  all  come  in 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  135 

there  and  lie  with  her  ;  and  little  children,  far,  far 
away  in  the  future — children  of  her  family — will 
be  brought  here,  all  to  be  buried  together,  all  to 
rise  together." 

Self-abandoned,  self-unconscious,  she  followed 
her  thoughts,  undisturbed  by  the  muttered  func- 
tions of  the  priest  and  the  sharp  outbreak  of  grief 
that  followed  the  placing  of  the  coffin  in  the  vault, 
and  the  long,  whining  sobs  that  accompanied  the 
tap-tapping  of  the  bricks  by  Monsieur  Sacerdote's 
trowel.  She  watched  the  barrier  rise  higher  and 
higher,  past  the  coffin,  past  the  flowers  on  top, 
past  the  black  vacant  space,  to  the  one  little  crack 
left ;  past  that,  past  the  breath  of  life,  past  life  it- 
self !  Immured  in  one  long  dormitory,  with  dust 
of  skeletons,  flowers,  wood.  .  ,  .  But  Madrilene 
took  not  this  view  of  it. 

"  It  is  like  getting  at  night  into  a  bed  where 
one's  father  and  mother  have  slept.  One  should 
sleep  well  in  that  bed." 

Madrilene's  bed  was  a  pallet  on  the  floor  of 
Madame  Lais's  room. 

"  One  should  have  none  but  beautiful  dreams 
there,  and  no  thoughts  to  chase  one  awake  all 
through  the  night.  And  the  walls  about  such  a 
bed  would  not  show  faces  to  grimace  at  one.  The 
night  would  protect  one  there  from  the  day — 
those  horrible  da3^s  that  come  back  and  come  back 
to  remembrance,  like  dishonest  duns  collecting 
their  bills  over  and  over  again.    It  is  a  fine  thing 


136  MADRILENE; 

where  parents  leave  such  a  bed  as  that  for  their 
children — regular  parents." 

Very  few  of  what  are  called  regular  parents 
live  about  a  cemetery.  Ties  and  relationships 
assume  a  voluntary  and  transient  character  in 
that  careless  neighborhood,  life  flowing  by  choice 
through  crooked  rather  than  straight  channels. 
Madrilene  had  never  lived  in  any  other  neighbor- 
hood. 

"  And  the  dead  will  have  their  festival  to-mor- 
row, and  she  will  be  among  them,  fresh  from  earth. 
It  will  be  a  birthday  to  her.  To-night  at  twelve 
o'clock  she  will  come  out  of  her  new  tomb  with 
them,  and  they  will  walk  down  these  paths,  visit- 
ing one  another,  and  talking  and  laughing."  (A 
common  superstition.)  "  They  will  hurry  away 
at  daylight,  but  not  far  away.  They  will  be 
above  us  there  in  the  air,  watching,  listening,  see- 
ing everything,  knowing  everything.  They  see 
who  come  to  their  tombs  and  who  stay  away  ;  who 
remember,  who  forget,  and  who  are  ashamed,  and 
who  deny  them.  They  will  see  the  little  orphans 
around  the  table  at  the  gate,  '  chinking,  chinking ' 
the  money  in  their  plates.  They  will  see  who 
give  to  the  orphans  and  who  do  not.  The  parents 
of  the  orphans  themselves  will  see  it.  But  the  or- 
phans cannot  see  their  parents.  Oh  no  !  Those 
who  can  remember  them  can  see  what  they  knew; 
but  those  who  have  not  known,  who  do  not  re- 
member, they  look  into  the  faces  of  the  passers-by, 


OR,  THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  137 

and  say, 'Was  she  like  that  lady?  Was  he  like 
that  gentleman?'  The  white  orphans  pick  out 
white  ladies  and  gentlemen  for  their  parents. 
God  leaves  the  photographs  perhaps  in  the  hearts 
of  the  children.  But  sometimes  the  children 
don't  like  the  photographs,  and  then  —  even  the 
colored  ones  pick  out  white  ladies  and  gentle- 
men for  their  parents." 

Her  thoughts  were  leading  her  up  to  that  em- 
pyrean to  which  human  thoughts  can  rise  from 
lowest  depths,  seeking,  it  may  be,  their  heavenly 
source,  or  it  may  be  only  seeking  their  earthly 
lackings. 

The  funeral  procession  went  away  again,  the 
grave  became  deserted,  and  the  busy  day  seemed 
about  going,  too.  The  sinking  sun  began  to  cast 
oblique  rays  over  the  tombs ;  the  breeze  blew  the 
white  sails  stealthily  along  the  canal  outside ;  the 
noises  were  ebbing;  the  throng  dispersing.  Al- 
most— almost — there  was  quiet  in  and  about  the 
cemetery.  The  preliminary  warning  of  the  bell 
for  shutting  the  gate  rang,  but  the  girl  heard  it 
not.  As  the  rich  and  the  happy  do,  she  luxu- 
riously let  the  moments  pass  unheeded. 

Monsieur  Sacerdote  commenced  his  rounds 
with  his  long  stick  to  make  sure  that  no  evil- 
intentioners  nor  stragglers  were  shut  in,  striking 
the  tombs  briskly  to  herald  his  approach. 

"  Ah,  mon  Dieu !"  she  exclaimed,  as  the  stick 
found  her  out.     "  It  would  be  good  to  stay  here 


138  MADRILENE  ; 

this  way  all  the  time.  Monsieur  Sacerdote,"  she 
said  to  him,  stretching  out  her  hand  to  stop  his 
staff,  "  how  good  it  would  be  to  stay  here  this  way 
all  the  time!  Never  to  go  back — never  to  go 
back  !  To  lie  here  among  the  clean  white  tombs 
until  judgment-day  !"  This  had  been  in  her  mind 
all  her  life.  When  she  was  a  little  child,  half 
naked,  all  dirty  from  the  streets,  she  had  begged 
to  be  left  in  the  cemetery,  "A\ith  the  dead,  with 
the  good  dead,  with  the  white  dead ;"  and  as  she 
said  then,  she  as  childishly  said  now  :  "  Maybe  I 
might  die,  and  you  might  slip  me  into  one  of 
these  tombs  here — who  would  know  ?  And  then 
on  resurrection-day — it  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
resurrection-day  to  come  on  All-Saints,  wouldn't 
it,  Monsieur  Sacerdote?  —  on  resurrection-day  I 
would  rise  with  the  others.  We  resurrect  white, 
do  we  not,  Monsieur  Sacerdote  ?  I  would  be  found 
out  otherwise.  All  white — white  limbs,  white  faces, 
white  wings,  white  clothes.  Not  yellow — not  black 
corpses  rising  with  their  white  bands."  She  closed 
her  eyes  and  shuddered.  "  Oh,  the  fearful  sight ! 
And  if  I  arose  with  the  white,  would  they  turn  me 
out,  do  you  think  ?" 

The  old  man  raised  his  dim  eyes  to  her  face, 
and  began  to  move  his  nerveless  lips  to  an- 
swer, when  a  violent  blow  aimed  from  behind 
missed  the  girl,  and  rang  on  the  tomb  beside 
her;  the  torrent  of  abuse  that  followed  was  surer. 
"Devil!    Dog!    Vileness !   Wretch!    Filth!    De- 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD,  139 

testable  animal  of  the  earth  !     Mulatresse  !     Ne- 
gress !" 

The  assailant,  a  quadroon  woman,  came  into 
view,  making  ineffectual  attempts  to  repeat  the 
blow.  Her  passion  supplied  words  too  fast  for 
utterance,  the  threats  and  abuse  choked  her 
breath  and  overloaded  her  lips.  She  would  hold 
on  to  one  word  and  repeat  it  mechanically,  until 
the  phrase  would  come  bursting  out,  carrying  a 
spray  of  white  foam  with  it. 

"  You  think  you  can  beat  Loulou !  You  think 
you  can  beat  him  in  the  streets  before  everybody! 
I  will  beat  you !  I  will  show  you !  Filtl\  of  the 
last  gutter  in  the  city !  You  shall  feel  the  weight 
of  this  hand,  I  tell  you !  You  beat  my  child  for 
white  children !  White  ...  Let  me  get  hold  of 
you !  Let  me  put  hands  on  you !  I  will  fix  you ! 
I  will  teach  you!  I  will  strip  you!  I  will  kill 
you!     You  .  .   ." 

She  seemed  to  be  afraid  of  saying  nothing;  no 
term  repugned  her,  and  no  impurity  seemed  too 
impure  to  apply  to  the  girl,  who  contented  her- 
self with  avoiding  blows,  pressing  her  lips  tightly 
together,  while  Monsieur  Sacerdote,  looking  be- 
wildered, alternated  his  "  Marie  Madeleines !"  with 
"  I  command  you !  I  command  you !"  to  the  virago. 

She  was  a  large  woman,  well  formed,  and  had 
all  the  points  which  go  to  make  the  beauty  of  her 
type.  Her  cheeks  glowed  with  the  only  blushes 
vouchsafed  them— the  heat  of  passion ;  the  blood 


140  MADRILENE; 

seemed  almost  to  start  the  dark  thick  skin,  and 
back  of  her  heavy  black  eyes  it  glistened  like  red 
coals  of  fire.  A  white  scum  settled  around  her 
lips — large,  full,  pampered,  pulpy  lips — with  their 
inevitable  subtle  suggestions  of  immodesties. 
There  appeared  to  be  no  lengths  to  which  the 
tide  of  passion  might  not  carry  her. 

"  May  I  ask  the  price  of  these?" 

The  interruption  came  from  a  man,  the  unper- 
ceived  spectator  of  the  scene,  and  the  concealed 
observer  of  the  girl  from  the  moment  she  awoke 
Monsieur  Sacerdote.  He  pointed  with  his  stick 
to  the  basket  of  paper  wreaths. 

The  quadroon  woman  instantly  included  him 
in  her  discourse,  giving  the  girl  no  space  to 
answer  in. 

"  A  miserable  creature,  sir,  who  is  always  for- 
saking her  own  race  to  run  after  the  whites. 
And  she  has  the  temper  of  a  demon,  sir.  She  beat 
my  son,  beat  him  almost  to  death,  out  there  in 
the  street!  A  little  child — ah,  but  I  shall  make 
her  pay  for  it!"  Then,  controlling  her  passion, 
she  glided  miraculously  into  the  obsequious  civil- 
ity of  her  class  to  the  whites,  and  sought  to  please, 
by  voice  and  demeanor,  and  a  deft  flattery  of 
prejudice.  "  She  should  stay  in  her  class,  sir; 
me,  I  stay  in  my  class.  If  God  made  us  quad- 
roons, we  should  be  quadroons.  She  tries  to  pass 
herself  off  for  white," 

The  girl  almost  opened  her  lips  to  speak. 


OR,   THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  141 

"When  quadroons  try  to  pass  themselves  off 
for  white,  it  is  for  no  good  purpose,  sir,  as  you 
know." 

"  I  will  buy  a  half-dozen  of  these,  but  you  must 
come  and  put  them  on  the  tombs  for  me,  your- 
self." The  man  turned  and  walked  away.  Madri- 
lene  waited  in  her  same  attitude. 

"  Go— go  follow  the  gentleman!  Don't  you 
see  he  wants  to  buy  some  of  your  wreaths?  Go, 
but  remember  —  to-night!"  The  woman  added 
this  in  a  muttered  whisper,  half  closing  her  en- 
raged eyes. 

Madrilene,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  picked 
up  her  basket  and  walked  after  the  stranger.  He 
was  reading  over  the  names  on  a  tomb  when  she 
caught  up  with  him. 

"These,  sir,  are  not  fit  for  you;  they  are  for 
the  colored  cemetery  and  the  very  poor."  Her 
voice  was  low.  It  sounded  like  a  voice  seldom 
used.  "  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  colored  ceme- 
tery.    I  only  stopped  in  here  a  moment." 

"  I  shall  buy  some  of  these,  all  the  same." 

"  If  you  would  permit  me,  sir,  I  could  make 
you  some  flower  wreaths  to-night^real  flowers." 

"  But  I  would  like  to  put  them  on  the  tombs 
to-day." 

"  Show  me  the  tombs,  sir,  and  I  will  have  them 
decorated  by  daylight  to-morrow.  Or  tell  me  the 
names — I  know  every  tomb  here." 

"  I  will  show  them  to  you."    He  pointed  out 


142  MADRILENE ; 

one  or  two,  and  then  walked  on  rapidly  through 
one  path  after  the  other. 

"  Are  these  all,  sir  ?" 

He  started  out  of  his  absorption.  "  Ah,  yes, 
yes!"  and  then,  one  would  have  said  almost  at 
random,  he  pointed  out  three  or  four  other  tombs. 

"  You  can  pay  me  to-morrow,  after  you  see 
them,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  a  gesture  he  made 
towards  his  purse. 

And  then  the  delayed  evening  bell  rang  imper- 
atively, ordering  all  out  of  the  cemetery  before 
the  closing  of  the  gate.  It  was  full  early,  as 
some  discontented  grumblers  did  not  fail  to  re- 
mark on  their  way  to  the  exit. 

"That  old  sexton  is  so  blind,  he  thinks  it  is 
sundown  at  mid-day." 

"  He  is  too  old  to  see,  he  is  too  old  to  hear — in 
fact,  he  is  too  old  to  be  alive  any  longer." 

"  You  noticed  he  was  not  there  for  the  funeral 
to-day  ?" 

"  Somebody  ought  to  report  him." 

Madrilene  passed  out  into  the  street.  The 
stranger  paused  by  the  sexton,  who  stood  holding 
the  gate  in  his  hand. 

"Who  is  this  girl.?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

Monsieur  Sacerdote  looked  at  the  questioner; 
he  was  neither  young  nor  handsome,  nor  "  that 
kind  of  a  man." 

"Marie  Madeleine,  but  those  people  call  her 
Madrilene." 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF    THE    DEAD.  143 

"Who  are  those  people  ?" 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Do  you  think  that  woman  will  carry  out  her 
threats  ?" 

Another  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Where  does  she  live?" 

"  Those  people  keep  chambrcs  garnies  some- 
where on Street." 

The  stranger  seemed  to  understand  the  indefi- 
nite reference.  He  looked  at  the  sexton  a  mo- 
ment, as  if  to  gauge  the  advisability  of  further 
questions,  and  then  he,  too,  walked  away  through 
the  ugly  wasted  boulevard. 

Marie  Madeleine  resumed  her  deferred  itin- 
eracy, turning  the  corner  at  which  she  had  before 
hesitated,  and  walking  down  the  street  to  the 
cemetery  set  apart  for  the  burial  of  the  col- 
ored. 

It  was  more  neglected,  and  if  possible  more  out- 
raged by  entourage,  than  the  other  place.  There 
was  no  sidewalk,  the  dilapidated  walls  patched 
up  to  irregular  heights,  for  the  accommodation 
of  vaults  inside,  threatened  to  fall  and  burst  asun- 
der at  any  time.  On  the  high,  level  places  a 
miniature  forest  grew — weeds,  grass,  and  chance 
seedlings  of  trees,  and  vines  that  drooped  almost 
to  the  ground  outside. 

As  she  had  done  the  length  of  the  other  ceme- 
tery, Madrilene  touched  the  walls  as  she  walked 
along  with  her  out-stretched  fingers  :    "  Dead  in 


144  MADRILENE ; 

there !  dead  in  there !  And  who  were  you  ?  and 
who  were  you  ?    All  dead  !  all  dead  !" 

It  was  only  thought,  and  in  words  not  her  own. 
Her  own  words,  from  the  common  store  of  lan- 
guage about  her,  could  not  have  expressed  her 
thoughts ;  or  perhaps  the  thoughts  as  well  as  the 
words  were  foreign  to  her ;  perhaps  the  thoughts 
were  transplanted  with  the  words  from  the  books 
read  aloud  to  Monsieur  Sacerdote  in  surreptitious 
hours,  in  that  stolen  acquirement  which  neither 
Madame  Lais  nor  her  family  suspected.  Read- 
ing! They  would  as  soon  have  provided  her 
with  a  looking-glass. 

There  were  the  same  scenes  around  this  ceme- 
tery as  the  other  one.  The  same  or  rather  a 
greater  throng,  and  greater  hilarity.  Nature  was 
the  same — sun,  atmosphere,  verdure,  houses — all 
the  same.  But  the  faces  of  the  people,  they  were 
different ;  passed  over,  as  it  were,  with  a  color  for 
a  travesty;  with  an  ochreous  wash.  Yellow,  yel- 
low, brown,  black  —  almost  all  yellow.  Differ- 
ences of  feature  and  expression,  height  and  figure, 
were  all  lost  in  the  one  monotonous  hue — the  hue 
of  a  race  creeping  down,  or  is  it  a  race  creeping 
up  the  scale  ?     A  patois  race. 

Madrilene  hastened  through  it  as  if  flying  from 
pursuit.  But  who  can  distance  thoughts?  And 
she  had  been  fury-driven  since  she  could  think. 
And  such  thoughts — such  strange  thoughts !  Did 
she  think  the  thoughts  herself,  or  did  God,  who 


OR,   THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  145 

sends  so  much  into  the  hearts  and  minds  of 
young  girls — even  to  the  most  abject — send  them 
to  her?  How  could  she  ascertain?  Could  she 
have  questioned  Madame  Lais,  or  Palmyre — the 
virago  mother  of  Loulou— or  Antoinette,  or  Phi- 
lomene,  or  Athalie,  or  any  of  Madame  Lais's  other 
daughters  ?  Or  any  of  the  yellow  men  who  came 
through  the  back  gate  to  visit  them?  Or  any  of 
the  white  men  who  rented  rooms  from  Madame 
Lais  ? 

She  might  have  had  ample  opportunity  to  ask 
these  last,  if,  like  Antoinette,  Philomene,  Palmyre, 
and  Athalie,  she  had  chosen  to  serve  them — carry 
them  their  coffee  of  mornings,  attend  to  their 
chambers,  wash  and  mend  their  clothing  for  them. 
There  could  not  be  found  more  amiable  servitors 
than  the  four  daughters  of  Madame  Lais,  what- 
ever their  back-yard  character  might  be,  and  so 
they  never  lacked  pocket-money,  fine  dresses,  and 
jewelry. 

But  Madrilene  would  never  serve  the  lodgers. 
At  first  she  had  to  endure  suffering  to  maintain 
her  obstinate  refusal.  That  was  a  little  over  a  year 
ago,  when  people  began  to  call  her  cette  jeune 
fille.  She  would  not  have  been  clothed  in  such 
rags  now  had  she  yielded  to  Madame  Lais.  Sell- 
ing these  wreaths  on  commission  once  a  year 
was  not  a  lucrative  profession,  and  the  rest  of  her 
time  and  service  was  due  Madame  Lais  for  her 
food  and  clothing:. 


146  MADRILENE ; 

She  entered  the  colored  cemetery,  and  went 
down  the  broad  central  walk,  Midway  before 
her  a  black  iron  arch  held  a  black  iron  cross 
high  up  against  the  evening  sky.  The  tall,  nar- 
row tombs  on  each  side  arose  close  together, 
almost  touching.  Were  they  really  different  from 
the  tombs  in  the  other  cemetery,  or  did  they 
only  appear  so  to  the  morbid  eye?  They  were 
not  all  black,  nor  all  white,  either,  but  mixed, 
like  the  people  they  enclosed,  with  interfusions, 
trimmings,  and  fleckings  of  one  color  upon  the 
other,  unconsciously  sinister.  And  the  nomen- 
clature on  the  tablets !  Such  a  different  read- 
ing from  the  tablets  in  the  other  cemetery! 
Names,  fictitious,  assumed,  composed,  or  stolen; 
some  of  them  sounding  sweet  in  the  mouth,  like 
the  anonymes  of  poets  and  poetesses;  some  of 
them  that  might  have  answered  at  the  roll-call 
of  Charlemagne;  some  of  them  petting  diminu- 
tives, like  the  names  of  birds  and  lapdogs;  some 
of  them  catching  the  eye  with  their  antique 
integrity,  like  bits  of  jewelry  in  pawn-shop  win- 
dows. But  all  of  them  one-sided  names.  For 
the  black  that  had  tinged  so  many  fair  complex- 
ions, muddied  the  depths  of  so  many  clear  eyes, 
and  alloyed  the  expression  of  so  many  noble 
profiles,  the  black  that  had  diverted  the  course 
of  so  many  names  and  destinies  —  all  that  was 
nameless  and  unrecorded,  barred  out,  like  the 
pure  black  people  themselves  from  this  cemetery. 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  147 

Marie  Madeleine  sold  her  wreaths  the  length  of 
the  walk.  The  night  promised  so  fair  that  over 
the  society  tombs  draperies  were  being  hung,  in 
readiness  for  the  morrow,  the  funeral  trappings 
of  a  by-gone  regality — black  velvet  palls,  spotted 
with  white  tear-drops;  old -fashion  black  hang- 
ings for  the  outside  of  houses,  with  profuse  appli- 
cations of  skulls  and  cross-bones  ;  and  hearse  and 
coffin  ornaments  borrowed  from  the  undertaker. 

When  she  had  sold  her  store  out,  she  waded 
through  the  tall  grass  of  a  side  path  until  she 
came  to  an  isolated  tier  of  vaults.  As  she  had 
expected  from  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  no  one 
was  there.  Each  one  of  all  the  square  tablets 
in  the  rows  carried  its  memorial — all  except  one. 
"  Rosemond  Delaunay "  was  the  name  it  bore. 
Delaunay  was  the  family  name  of  Madame 
Lais. 

From  under  the  paper  at  the  bottom  of  her 
basket  the  girl  took  a  bead  medallion — the  con- 
ventional tomb,  weeping-willow,  and  weeping  fig- 
ure. It  bore  the  inscription,  "  A  ma  Mere."  She 
held  it  for  a  moment  in  her  hand.  It  seemed  to 
weigh  heavy,  pulling  her  arm  down,  while  she 
looked  before  her  into  vacancy.  Returning  to 
herself,  by  force  of  will,  she  hung  the  tribute  on 
the  nail  fixed  for  that  purpose  in  the  tablet.  The 
crumbling  mortar  loosed  its  hold,  nail  and  medal- 
lion fell  to  the  ground. 

"  Pas  ramassez  li !  li  tombe  par  terre  !      Bon 


148  MADRILENE ; 

Die  la  oule  !"  (Do  not  pick  it  up  !  It  fell  to  the 
earth  !     Good  God  wished  it !) 

Before  looking,  Marie  Madeleine  recognized 
the  voice  of  old  Zizi  Mouton,  the  occult  terror  of 
Madame  Lais's  life,  reputed  to  be  one  of  the  "  old 
people  "  who  know  everything.  She  was  seated 
on  the  ground,  her  feet  in  the  dry  ditch  ;  an  old, 
decrepit  black  negress;  her  face  a  bundle  of 
wrinkles  tied  up  in  a  head-kerchief ;  the  bright  lit- 
tle black  bead  eyes  seeming  to  draw  the  whole 
physiognomy  in  to  some  interior  fastening.  She 
pushed  out  her  long  stick,  and  held  the  medallion 
to  the  earth.  "  Pas  ramassez  li,  mo  dit  toi !  Pas 
ramassez  li !" 

The  girl  did  what  Madame  Lais  would  have 
been  afraid  even  to  think.  She  pushed  the  stick 
aside,  picked  up  her  wreath  and  the  nail,  saying, 
in  Creole  :  "  Let  me  alone,  Zizi !" 

"  Hd,  Madrilene  !  Vie  Zizi  a  raison  !  Bon 
Die  a  raison  !"  (Old  Zizi  is  right !  Good  God  is 
right !) 

Like  all  voudoos,  old  Zizi  professed  to  be  the 
oracle  of  God.  Madrilene  hammered  the  nail 
back  into  its  place  with  a  piece  of  brick,  and  hung 
the  wreath  up  again,  and  stood  hiding  her  face  in 
her  hands. 

The  passers-by  thought  she  was  weeping  or 
praying,  as  many  others  were  doing  around  her, 
for  these  tombs,  at  this  season,  move  the  heart 
almost  beyond  control. 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  149 

The  Strange  gentleman  who  had  ordered  the 
flowers  from  her  in  the  other  cemetery,  always 
walking  behind  her,  always  observing  her,  might 
have  wished,  as  he  stood  there  out  of  reach  of 
her  eye,  to  hide  his  face  also,  as  the  girl  did,  the 
thoughts  that  would  intrude  on  a  gentleman,  not 
to  say  a  moralist,  like  him  in  this  cemetery  being 
perhaps  more  comfortably  entertained  in  solitude 
and  silence,  behind  folded  hands. 

After  Marie  Madeleine  had  walked  well  away, 
old  Zizi  prized  herself  up  with  hand  and  stick 
from  the  ground,  tore  the  wreath  from  the  nail, 
and  beat  the  nail  again  out  of  its  place,  muttering, 
"  Ah,  Lais  !  coquine  !" 

When  the  old  woman  had  left,  the  stranger  ap- 
proached and  studied  the  inscription  on  the  tomb 
and  the  inscription  on  the  bead  memorial ;  and 
then,  still  in  pursuit  of  an  object  or  an  idea,  walked 
out  of  the  cemetery  into  the  street,  retracing  his 
steps  towards  the  other  graveyard. 

Darkness  had  fallen  after  the  short  twilight. 
Those  of  the  "  marchands  "  and  "marchandes" 
who  had  obtained  advantageous  positions  against 
the  wall  were  preparing  to  hold  them  by  camping 
on  the  spot  all  night.  Others  were  slowly  bun- 
dling up  their  wares  for  a  reluctant  departure. 
The  coffee-houses  had  gathered  in  and  were  hold- 
ing their  noisy  clients  about  them.  Aboard  the 
schooners  in  the  basin,  lighted  fires  began  to  show, 
flaming  against  the  bottoms  and  sides  of  over- 


I50 


MADRILENE 


hanging  caldrons,  casting  magic  circles  of  red 
brightness  around  lounging  groups  of  swarthy 
men.  Through  the  gloom  the  evil  night  human- 
ity that  haunt  such  spots  could  be  seen  beginning 
their  quest  for  adventures  and  victims,  and  old 
Zizi  Mouton,  hobbling  on  her  stick,  was  drop- 
ping, or  pretending  to  drop,  those  voudoo  charms 
which,  picked  up  this  night  around  the  cemetery 
walls,  were  peculiarly  potent  for  good  or  for  evil. 

As  he  had  accosted  the  sexton,  the  stranger 
accosted  the  old  negress,  and  with  the  same  in- 
quiry, "  Who  is  this  girl  Madrilene  ?" 

He  had  passed  the  girl  on  the  street.  She 
was  leaning  against  a  high  board  fence,  her  bas- 
ket on  her  head,  unobservant  to  blindness  from 
inward  preoccupation. 

The  voudoo  did  not  need  to  be  questioned 
twice.  "  Madrilene,  eh  ?  And  Madame  Lai's  !" 
She  put  her  finger  on  her  lip,  and  motioned  the 
gentleman  to  follow  her. 

There  was  one  person  to  whom  Marie  Made- 
leine could  lay  bare  her  mind  —  Monsieur  Sacer- 
dote.  Those  who  dwell  in  the  serene  atmos- 
phere of  prosperity  and  happiness  know  not  the 
findings  of  sympathy,  love,  and  devotion  that  lie 
in  the  murky  depths  of  poverty  and  misfortune. 
But  the  tie  that  bound  Marie  Madeleine  to  Mon- 
sieur Sacerdote  was  hardly  the  human  confed- 
eracy known  as  friendship.     If  one  called  it  a 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  151 

religion,  one  would  more  fitly  describe  it.  Was 
it  not  a  thing  of  the  soul  with  her?  An  aspira- 
tion, an  inspiration,  the  semblance  of  a  hope,  the 
invisibility  of  a  faith  ?  Where  did  she  look  for 
him  when  she  sought  him  in  her  mind  ?  At  her 
level  ?  On  a  platform  of  earthly  elevation  ?  Or 
above  her  in  those  unattainable  heights  in  which 
one  must  be  born  ? 

He  was  above  her ;  born  above  her.  Oh,  there 
was  no  doubt  about  that !  The  most  audacious, 
the  most  impudent,  the  most  infuriated,  the  most 
drunken,  the  lightest  of  the  light-colored,  what- 
ever they  might  say,  in  their  secret  hearts,  she 
knew,  never  disputed  that  the  white  are  born 
above  the  black. 

Was  not  God  white  to  them?  The  Saviour- 
white  ?  The  Virgin  white  ?  The  saints,  martyrs, 
angels,  all  white  ?  The  people  they  read  of  in 
books,  were  they  not  all  white  ?  And  the  people 
they  saw  on  the  stage  ?  Did  the  whites  want  to- 
change  their  whiteness  for  blackness  ?  Did  the 
blacks  want  to  change  their  blackness  for  white- 
ness ?  However  much  they  might  despise  old 
Fantome  Sacerdote  for  his  wretchedness,  how- 
ever much  they  shunned  him  with  superstitious 
terror,  he  was  what  they  could  never  be,  and  he 
was  of  the  color  of  those  whom  they  worshipped. 
The  deduction  was  very  simple  and  easy  to  Marie 
Madeleine.  When  she  looked  at  him  she  saw 
the  originals  of  the  pictures  that  hang  in  churches ; 


152  MADRILENE; 

when  she  listened  to  him  she  heard  them,  and 
when  she  talked  to  him  it  was  almost  as  if  she 
were  praying  ;  only  the  prayers  to  God,  once 
learned,  were  always  the  same.  What  she  told 
Monsieur  Sacerdote  were  the  ever-new  accumula- 
tions, the  constant  drippings  day  by  day  from  the 
invisible  into  an  opening  mind.  Into  the  busy 
mind  of  a  waif  and  stray  about  fifteen,  however, 
thoughts  do  not  drip,  but  flood  in  storming  tor- 
rents, particularly  about  the  time  of  All-Saints. 

The  place  where  Monsieur  Sacerdote  passed 
his  nights  might  have  been  blamed  as  being  more 
insalubrious  than  where  he  passed  his  days.  A 
high,  close  fence  hid  the  interior  from  the  curious 
eye,  and  a  heavily  bolted  gate  protected  it  from 
intrusion.  The  tall  fence  was  responsible  for 
some  of  the  misery  it  hid,  for  the  sun  had  a 
chance  of  entering  that  way  at  least.  The  damp- 
ness trickled  down  the  sides  of  these  high  brick 
walls  into  the  little  enclosure  as  into  a  well,  and 
from  the  street  the  green  moss  could  be  seen  flour- 
ishing on  the  peaked  roof  of  the  low  house,  and 
planks  had  to  be  used  to  bridge  the  mud  from 
the  door-step  to  the  gate. 

The  superstition  was  not  against  the  sexton's 
office — experience  all  over  the  city  refuted  that. 
It  was  against  the  man,  about  whose  uncanny  per- 
sonality the  stories  were  never  allowed  to  die  out. 
He  was  even  used  as  a  reproach  to  the  hovel  that 
sheltered  him,  a  hovel  whose  wretchedness  and 


OR,  THE   FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD,  153 

poor  appearance  should  have  rendered  it  below 
reproach ;  and  he  was  used  not  only  as  a  reproach, 
but  a  missile  of  insult  against  Marie  Madeleine, 
not  only  by  Loulou  in  the  street,  but  by  Madame 
Lais  at  home,  and  by  the  malicious  everywhere. 
What  she  suffered  from  her  refusal  to  serve  the 
lodgers  was  even  less  than  what  she  suffered  from 
her  persistence  in  serving  the  sexton. 

Arrived  at  the  gate  with  her  empty  basket,  she 
did  not  attempt  to  make  herself  heard.  That 
would  have  been  a  noisy  process.  She  leaned, 
as  usual,  against  the  fence  and  waited.  If  Mon- 
sieur Sacerdote  wished  to  let  her  in,  he  would 
come  after  a  while  and  open  the  gate  for  her.  If 
he  did  not,  she  would  go  on  home.  Is  God  re- 
quired to  answer  all  prayers  ? 

If  he  wished  to  see  her,  the  taper  floating  in 
its  glass  of  oil  would  soon  be  creeping  along  the 
plank  walk  to  the  gate.  The  rusty  bolt  would 
resist,  and  the  rusty  key  would  squeak,  but,  with 
her  weight  added  to  the  outside,  the  gate  would 
finally  open,  and  the  old  man  would  say,  "My 
child,  come  in."  Fancy  if  God  should  speak  out 
and  call  her  "my  child!" 

And  then  he  would  give  her  a  book  to  read 
aloud  to  him — a  book  that  for  age  could  have 
been  her  grandparent,  and  she  would  read  aloud 
to  him  in  that  beautiful  reading  he  had  taught 
her.  No  one  suspected — Madame  Lais  least  of 
all — that  she  could  read.     Because  Madame  Lais 


154  MADRIL^NE ; 

would  never  let  her  go  to  school,  she  thought  that 
she  would  never  learn  to  read.  She  had  learned 
her  alphabet  from  the  tombstones,  helping  Mon- 
sieur Sacerdote  in  his  work,  during  the  first  days 
of  their  friendship.  In  the  cemetery  the  sexton 
would  tell  her  about  the  people  in  the  tombs,  but 
in  his  little  house  he  v/ould  tell  her  about  the 
people  in  books.  When  she  would  go  home  at 
night,  her  head  would  be  filled  with  what  she  had 
read  and  what  he  had  told  her,  and  so  she  could 
stand  Madame  Lais — her  tempers,  her  language, 
her  atmosphere — her  whole  world,  in  fact.  And 
while  Madame  Lais  lay  in  her  bed,  and  Madrilene 
lay  on  the  floor,  as  in  old  times  slaves  lay  in  the 
sleeping  chambers  of  their  mistresses,  her  head 
would  be  lifted  far,  far  above  her  surroundings 
by  the  ideas  the  books  gave  her.  And  when  Ma- 
dame Lais  would  call  her  and  wake  her  and  treat 
her  as,  let  us  hope,  few  mistresses  treated  their 
slaves,  it  was  still  an  affair  of  the  body,  and  not 
of  that  soaring,  inflated  mind.  It  was  those  even- 
ings when  she  did  not  read  aloud  to  Monsieur 
Sacerdote  that  the  walls  grimaced  at  her,  and  the 
days  came  back  to  torment  her,  and  the  close 
ladened  atmosphere  of  the  room  suffocated  her, 
and  life  took  on  terrific  features.  She  would  look 
far,  far  back  in  her  memory  for  some  help,  but 
there  was  none.  She  would  look  far,  far  ahead 
in  the  future,  and  still  there  was  none.  Madame 
Lais  behind  and  Madame  Lais  before  her,  and 


OR,  THE    FESTIVAL   OF    THE   DEAD.  155 

all  about  her  the  Africanized  wall  of  Madame 
Lais's  children  and  grandchildren.  Better  for 
her,  fatherless,  nameless,  to  be  lying  in  the  tomb 
with  the  husbandless  Rosemond  Delaunay  than 
live  with  these  husbandless,  fatherless  nieces  and 
sisters  of  Rose'mond  Delaunay. 

What  desperations,  what  agonizing  impoten- 
cies,  did  she  not  feel  at  these  moments  !  She  was 
so  ignorant,  so  brutalized,  so  blind  ! 

No,  evidently  Monsieur  Sacerdote  was  not  go- 
ing to  let  her  in  this  evening.  She  must  go  home. 
The  nine  o'clock  bell  was  ringing.  He  never  let 
her  in  after  nine  o'clock. 

Arrived  at  her  street,  she  selected  among  the 
row  of  ill-kept,  ugly-looking  back  doors  that  faced 
the  cemetery  the  one  that  belonged  to  her  home. 
As  she  was  about  to  put  her  hand  on  the  latch, 
it  was  lifted  from  the  inside,  and  old  Zizi  Mou- 
ton,  bending  herself  more  double  than  ever, 
slipped  out  as  noiselessly  as  a  black  cat,  and 
nimbly  ran  down  the  banquette,  in  the  opposite 
direction  from  Marie  Madeleine.  "  She  is  prepar- 
ing some  of  her  devilment,"  thought  the  girl. 
"  She  does  not  imagine  that  I  have  seen  her." 

There  was  loud  talking  inside  —  Palmyre's 
voice.  Madrilene  waited  with  her  hand  on  the 
latch,  listening. 

Zizi  Mouton,  after  her  more  than  voluminous 
revelations,  had  conducted  the  stranger  to  the 


156  MADRILENE ; 

front  door  of  the  same  house.  It  was  as  pomp- 
ous as  its  obverse  was  contemptible.  The  pla- 
card "  Chambres  Garnies  "  swung  from  the  gal- 
lery at  the  end  of  a  long  wire,  just  over  the  heads 
of  the  banquette  pedestrians.  Here  and  there  on 
the  block  other  placards  swung  and  fluttered — 
an  ominous  sign  for  the  neighborhood.  The  ap- 
pearance of  the  first  of  such  placards  is  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  first  taint  spot  in  the  value  of 
property  in  a  locality — a  symptom  of  corruption, 
and  the  forerunner  of  depreciation. 

Chambres  garnies  mean  different  things  to  dif- 
ferent people,  or  shall  we  say,  different  minds.  A 
furtive  visit  to  an  involved  landlord  or  landlady 
by  a  hesitating,  heavily  veiled  woman ;  a  high 
rent  offered  and  guaranteed  by  the  confidential 
communication  and  signature  of  some  well-known 
name ;  a  new  light  thrown  on  some  hitherto  im- 
maculate character,  or  an  old  one  rekindled  from 
a  smouldering  scandal ;  the  hesitation  on  the 
part  of  the  property-holder  between  putting  an 
insult  out-of-doors  or  putting  it  into  the  pocket 
— chambres  garnies  mean  this  to  some.  To  others 
they  represent  only  a  comfortable  system  of  lodg- 
ing where  landlady  and  servant  are  harmoniously 
one ;  where  references  are  not  required,  and  su- 
pervision is  carefully  abstained  from  ;  where  free- 
dom of  movement  and  secrecy  are  guaranteed. 
To  strangers  they  are  attractive  as  repositories 
of  romance,  magazines  of  tropical  poetry,  studies 


OR,  THE    FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  157 

of  picturesque  domesticities,  a  curious  half-world, 
legitimized  on  the  one  side  by  prejudice,  on  the 
other  by  sympathy. 

A  ring  of  the  chambres  garnies'  bell  fetches,  after 
a  long  interval,  a  black  boy  or  girl,  scrubbing- 
brush  in  hand,  thin,  poorly  clad,  miserable-look- 
ing, as  a  negro  must  be  who  serves  his  or  her 
own  color:  has  it  been  said  \\\z.\.  chambres  garnies 
are  always  exquisitely  clean? 

A  stranger  would  ask  for  Madame  Brown  or 
Madame  Smith,  but  a  townsman  asks  for  Madame 
Lais,  or  maybe  Lais.  He  then  remains  standing 
during  another  long  interval,  glancing  around  him. 

The  hall  and  staircase  are  perfectly  bare,  ex- 
cept for  the  foot-fall-stilling  drugget.  The  cham- 
bers, however,  unless  occupied,  always  stand  open, 
advertising  of  their  handsome  interiors — the  vel- 
vet carpets  and  damask  curtains,  the  great  bed- 
stead with  lace-trimmed  dressings,  the  arnioire  a 
jjiiroir;  the  lavabo,  with  its  fine  porcelains  and 
linens ;  the  biscuit  statuettes  and  vases  of  paper 
flowers  on  the  mantel.  Interiors  of  a  vague,  un- 
defined, differentiating  luxury,  inexplicable,  or  it 
may  be  simply  unexplicable.  .  .  . 

A  scraping  rather  than  a  rustling  is  heard  in 
the  upper  regions — a  scraping  from  skirts  sharp- 
ened as  weM  as  stiffened  by  unstinted  starch. 
They  scrape  down  the  steps  slowly,  for  Madame 
Lais  is  stout,  and  finally  come  to  stillness  and 
quietude   before  the   expectant   stranger.      And 


158  •  MADRILENE; 

he  sees,  if  it  is  spring,  summer,  autumn,  or  winter, 
a  long,  loose,  white  "  Gabrielle,"  with  elaborate 
trimmings  of  ruffles  and  lace,  that  show  the  yellow 
neck  and  arms  underneath,  a  yellow  face,  thickly 
dusted  with  white  powder,  and  hair  smoothed  into 
a  topknot  with  French  heliotrope  pomade,  and  a 
soft,  fat  face,  whose  values,  not  at  first  appreci- 
able, begin  to  make  themselves  felt  as  beauty  by 
force  of  certain  underlying  suggestions.  But 
what  the  stranger  sees  is  infinitesimal  in  compar- 
ison with  what  Madame  Lais  sees.  Her  eyes 
have  been  trained  to  see  as  other  eyes  have  been 
trained  to  shoot,  and  men,  not  boards,  have  been 
from  time  immemorial  their  target.  AVhat  Ma- 
dame Lais  sees  in  a  stranger  decides  in  an  instant 
whether  she  has  a  vacant  room,  the  price  of  it, 
the  price  of  laundry  and  personal  services — serv- 
ing coffee  in  bed  mornings,  attendance  when  ill, 
etc.  A  great  many  apply  for  rooms  to  find  them 
always  filled.  Some  never  apply  without  finding 
the  best  one  vacant  and  at  the  disposition  of 
monsieur. 

If  he  likes  the  modus  vivendi,  it  is  very  com- 
fortable for  the  stranger  after  he  is  once  taken  in 
by  this  or  another  Madame  Lais.  He  rarely  ever 
seeks  other  lodgings,  and  he  will  travel  willingly 
year  after  year  from  one  house  to  the  other  with 
his  chambres  garnies'  hostess,  who  does  not  attach 
herself  generally  to  buildings.  He  has  his  coffee 
punctually  in  the  morning,  and  his  mending  and 


OR,   THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    DEAD,  159 

laundry  without  a  remission.  If  he  falls  ill,  he  is 
nursed ;  and  it  is  safe  to  say  no  one  in  New  Or- 
leans can  nurse  like  Madame  Lais — the  tender- 
ness of  a  mother,  the  devotion  of  a  slave,  the  del- 
icacy of  a  wife,  the  unflinching  patience  of  a 
hospital  Sister,  all  combined  !  One  never  thinks 
of  blushing  before  a  Madame  Lai's,  or  apologiz- 
ing. One  has  absolutely  no  self-consciousness 
with  her.  One  can  be  or  do  what  one  pleases 
before  her  with  surety.  There  is  no  shocking 
her.  That  makes,  in  short,  the  merit  of  her  class, 
putting  them  as  lodging-house  keepers  beyond 
competition  and  rivalry.  And  she  is  comely,  too, 
and  young;  or  at  least  her  daughters  are,  or  her 
granddaughters,  or  her  nieces.  She  sometimes 
nurses  the  stranger  through  life  to  a  good  old 
age ;  and  when  he  dies,  if  he  leaves  anything — 
but  he  rarely  leaves  anything.  If  he  does,  how- 
ever, soon  after  the  mortuary  certificate  there  is 
generally  a  little  testament  produced,  written  very 
recently — produced  by  Madame  Lais  herself — a 
testament  unknown  of  the  expectant  nieces  and 
nephews.  When  they  read  this  testament  they 
thank  God,  perhaps,  that  there  are  no  other  docu- 
ments produced — only  witnesses.  When  these  last 
are  forthcoming,  it  is  a  nine-days'  talk  in  the 
scandal  world,  if  the  matter  gets  into  court.  And 
the  disinherited  nieces  go  to  sewing  or  piano- 
playing  for  a  living ;  that  is,  if  the  family  is  of 
the  city.     If  they  Uve  outside  or  in  foreign  parts, 


l6o  MADRILENE  ; 

they  are  generally  saved  the  pain  of  knowing 
anything  beyond  the  fact  of  death — unless  they 
are  contentious  and  sceptical.  And  the  hand- 
somely furnished  chambers  are  always  getting 
more  handsomely  furnished,  and  the  petticoats 
are  always  getting  stiffer,  and  the  "  Gabrielles " 
more  elaborately  trimmed,  and  the  chatnhres  gar- 
nies'  granddaughters  and  nieces  wear  more  and 
more  jewelry,  and  drift,  more  and  more  of  them, 
into  salaried  positions  under  the  government. 
What  Monsieur  Sacerdote  saw  with  his  dull 
vision,  Madame  Lais  could  not  fail  to  see  :  that 
this  stranger  who  applied  to  her  at  nightfall  for 
lodgings  was  not  "that  kind  of  a  man:"  a  grave, 
sedate,  middle-aged  scholar,  but  with  eyes,  for  the 
matter  of  that,  that  gathered  as  much  in  a  glance 
as  Madame  Lais's.  They  were  not,  however,  the 
eyes  through  which  occupants  of  chambres  garnies 
look  at  life,  and  his  voice  was  not  propitious. 

Her  rooms  were  all  full — unalterably,  irrevoca- 
bly full ;  not  even  a  vacancy  on  the  highest  gal- 
lery, not  even  the  bare  closet  he  persisted  in  de- 
manding. 

Madame  Lai's  regretted  it  very  much  in  her 
voluble,  frank,  amicable  way,  telling  of  houses  all 
around  her  where  chambers  were  vacant ;  not 
two  doors  off  was  a  white  lady,  one  of  the  best 
old  Creole  families,  who  took  boarders. 

"Where  is  that  loud  talking?"  questioned  the 
stranger,  inappropriately. 


OR,  THE    FESTIVAL   OF    THE   DEAD.  i6i 

"  Those  young  girls  amusing  themselves  in 
the  yard,"  she  answered,  shrugging  her  large 
shoulders. 

He  listened  with  ill-concealed  interest. 

Madame  Lais  opened  the  door  to  facilitate  his 
departure,  but  sprang  back  in  dismay  from  the 
exposed  threshold. 

"  Ah,  misere  !  Ah,  grand  Dieu !  Do  not  let 
them  touch  me !  Kick  them  away,  monsieur ! 
For  the  love  of  God,  kick  them  away  with  your 
foot !"  She  ran  backward  into  the  hall  as  far  as 
the  staircase,  pointing  with  both  hands  to  the 
spot  where  lay  scattered  a  dozen  or  more  minute 
paper  parcels.  "Ah!  what  is  going  to  happen 
to  me  now  ?  It  is  that  old  voudoo  !  It  is  that 
old  Zizi  Mouton !  My  God,  why  does  she  not 
let  me  alone  ?  Kick  them  away,  monsieur — kick 
them  away !" 

At  that  instant  a  scream  sounded  through  the 
long  passage-way — a  call.  The  woman  turned 
and  ran  in  the  direction  from  whence  it  came, 
the  man  after  her. 

Madrilene,  outside  the  gate,  listened  to  Pal- 
myre's  voice  rising  louder  and  louder. 

"  No  one  shall  lay  hands  on  my  child  !  I  will 
kill  any  one  who  lays  hands  on  my  child  !  My 
child  is  as  good  as  any  one  !" 

They  always  use  extreme  threats,  the  colored. 
Madrilene  had  heard  her  rage  in  the  same  way 


i62  MADRILENE ; 

against  Loulou  himself ;  had  she  not,  in  fact, 
taken  a  hatchet  to  him  more  than  once  ?  The 
best  way  was  to  leave  her  alone,  to  take  no 
notice  of  her;  let  her  talk  herself  out  until  ex- 
hausted, when  she  would  throw  herself  down  any- 
where upon  the  ground,  upon  the  floor,  and  snore 
until  daylight.  Madrilene  heard  the  others  an- 
swering her,  laughing  at  her.  She  knew,  if  they 
did  that,  Palmyre  would  keep  it  up  all  night ; 
Madame  Lais  herself  could  do  nothing  with  her 
in  that  mood. 

"  My  child  is  as  good  as  any  one  !  No  one 
shall  touch  my  child  !  I  will  cut  any  one  open 
who  touches  my  child !" 

The  men  and  women  inside  laughed  again. 

They  were  exciting  Palmyre.  Fools !  Did 
they  want  her  carried  off  by  the  police  to  the  cala- 
boose, as  she  had  been  not  so  very  long  ago  ? 
Madame  Lais  had  to  pay  enough  money  for  that 
temper. 

"  I  will  show  you !  I  will  show  you !  I  will 
break  every  bone  in  her  body !  The  moment  she 
comes  in  you  will  see  !     Oh,  I'll  pay  her !" 

The  girl  outside  felt  a  thrill  of  terror.  Would 
Palmyre  dare,  would  she  dare  touch  her  ?  Even 
Madame  Lais  had  never  dared  that  but  once — 
the  day,  so  long  ago,  when  she  had  fled  into  the 
cemetery  for  refuge,  the  first  clay  she  had  ever 
seen  Monsieur  Sacerdote ;  the  day  she  had 
begged  him  to  leave  her  with  the  good  dead,  the 


OR,   THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  163 

white  dead.  Would  Palmyre  dare  touch  her  ? 
Would  the  others  let  her — that  crowd  of  disor- 
derly men  and  women  laughing  and  jeering  in 
the  yard  ?  And  the  cemetery  was  lock-fast  now, 
and  no  Monsieur  Sacerdote  at  hand ! 

"  I  will  strip  her  naked  !  I  will  stamp  her  !  I 
will  make  her  howl !" 

She  could  run  back,  she  could  call,  she  could 
beat  on  the  gate,  and  make  herself  heard  of  Mon- 
sieur Sacerdote  !  But — but  pass  those  drinking 
shops  again  ?  Pass  all  those  roistering  men  ? 
Go  again  through  that  dark  alleyway  ?  She  was 
afraid.  Born  and  raised  in  the  streets,  she  was 
afraid  of  them  at  night ;  afraid  of  them  at  the  very 
age  when  other  colored  girls  frequent  them.  No, 
she  was  not  afraid  of  Palmyre  when  she  thought 
of  the  streets.  Palmyre  ?  Palmyre  was  afraid 
of  her.  They  all  were  afraid  of  her,  even  Ma- 
dame Lais. 

"  I  dare  her  to  come  in !  I  dare  her  to  open 
that  gate  !     I  dare  her  like  .  .  ." 

The  girl  shrank  back  involuntarily.  Did  Pal- 
myre suspect  she  was  out  there  ? 

But  this  street  was  no  place  to  stop  in ;  this 
gate  was  known ;  any  moment  something  might 
happen  to  a  woman  all  alone  at  this  gate,  and  no 
policeman  anywhere,  except,  perhaps,  drinking  in 
the  coffee-houses. 

"  Low  scum  of  the  gutters  !  Let  me  lay  my 
hands  on  her !     She  will  wish  she  was  dead  !" 


l64  MADRILENE; 

A  crowd  of  noisy  men  were  coming  along  now, 
singing.  They  would  think  she  was  there  pur- 
posely. Oh,  she  was  afraid  of  men  !  Afraid  of 
them  ?  None  of  Madame  Lais's  family  were 
afraid  of  men.  Afraid  of  ghosts  and  voudoos .'' 
yes  ;  but  men,  no.  And  Madrilene  was  afraid  of 
men,  but  not  ghosts  nor  voudoos.  The  men  were 
getting  nearer  and  nearer,  singing  like  firemen  : 
firemen  were  the  worst  kind,  or  the  men  that  fol- 
low firemen.  In  daylight  her  heart  would  jump 
and  start  if  one  looked  at  her.  What  was  she 
afraid  of  ?  What  could  they  do  to  her  ?  She  did 
not  know ;  only  she  was  afraid,  afraid. 

"  Oh,  I  will  make  her  dance  !" 

They  laughed  inside  at  Palmyre's  wit ! 

The  men  were  passing  now.  They  had  seen 
her.  They  were  all  around  her.  She  flattened 
herself  against  the  gate.  One  pinched  her  arm, 
one  pinched  her  cheek,  one —  Oh,  better  Pal- 
myre  !  She  pressed  the  latch  ;  the  gate  fell  open 
with  her  weight ;  she  was  inside  ! 

"  Ha  !     There  she  is  !     Ha  !" 

"Palmyre,  do  not  dare  touch  me  !"  she  cried. 

Dare  ?  Dare .''  Oh,  better  the  men  outside 
than  these  blows,  these  scratches,  this  tearing  of 
hair. 

"  Do  not  dare  !  do  not  dare  !"  she  kept  calling. 
She  was  still  at  the  gate  ;  she  could  still  gain  the 
street.     She  was  almost  outside. 

"  I  will  strip  you  first !" 


OR,   THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  165 

Her  sacque  was  torn  with  one  jerk  from  her 
body.  Pahnyre  had  her  safe  enough  now  inside. 
Could  the  others  not  in  the  darkness  see  the 
blows  descending  upon  her  .''  Could  they  not 
hear  them  through  the  cursing  and  swearing  that 
accompanied  them .-'  Did  they  not  know  that 
Palmyre  carried  a  knife  in  her  bosom — she  car- 
ried her  bosom  naked  enough  for  them  to  see  it. 
Madrilene  sprang  from  under  the  heavy  arms  of 
Palmyre  to  the  steps,  to  the  gallery  above.  Oh, 
if  the  lattice  were  only  away,  she  could  spring 
into  the  street  below  ! 

"  I  will  catch  you  !     I  will  cut  you  open  !" 

"Plelp!  help!" 

The  naked  fleshy  mass  crowding  her,  the  blows, 
the  darkness,  the  epithets,  the  hot  puffing  breath, 
the  odor.  "  Help  !  help  !"  She  felt  the  knife.  It 
was  cutting — cutting  !  "  Help !  help  !"  She  knew 
not  herself  what  her  lips  were  screaming.  It  was 
a  crucifrcial  cry,  an  alarm  not  from  herself,  but 
from  something  within  her  driven  to  voice  by  ex- 
tremity of  pain  and  humiliation.  "  Help  !  help  ! 
Negroes  are  murdering  a  white  girl  in  here ! 
Help!  help!" 

It  was  a  cry  to  awaken  the  dead  in  the  ceme- 
tery over  there,  to  raise  and  arm  a  mob,  to  para- 
lyze the  fist  over  her,  to  paralyze  her  own  lips — 
an  unheard-of,  an  unknown,  an  uncodified  cry, 
an  unrepeatable  one  1  She  heard  the  air  car- 
rying it  out  high  over  the  street,  shrill,  quaver- 


l66  MADRILilNE ; 

ing,  forking  a  sudden,  jagged  course  like  light- 
ning, rebounding  from  high  walls,  echoing  in 
hollow  alleyways,  leaving  behind  it  one  dark, 
still,  stark,  void  moment  of  suspense— and  armis- 
tice. 

Then  hearing,  clotted  with  the  answers,  the 
sound  of  voices,  the  tramp  of  running  feet,  open- 
ing of  doors,  banging  of  windows.  "  Hold  on  ! 
We  are  coming  !  we  are  coming  !  Hold  on  !" 
Far  off  in  whispers,  near  at  hand  in  shouts.  "We 
are  coming!  we  are  coming!" 

She  had  fallen.  It  was  dark  before  her  eyes 
when  they  came,  but  she  saw  them :  heads,  heads, 
heads,  row  behind  row — dishevelled  coffee-house 
heads,  glossy  parlor  heads,  "  dago  "  heads  tied  in 
handkerchiefs,  firemen  heads  under  helmets,  the 
heads  of  the  men  who  had  pinched  her  cheek  and 
arm,  and  women's  heads,  with  open,  screaming 
mouths.  She  had  summoned  a  race  to  her  res- 
cue ;  they  had  come !  How  the  floor  trembled 
when  Palmyre  was  flung  upon  it ! 

Away  off,  Madame  Lais's  head ;  behind  her, 
the  head  of  the  stranger  who  had  ordered  flowers 
from  Madeleine  in  the  cemetery ;  behind  him,  old 
Zizi  Mouton's  head  ;  behind,  behind,  the  head  of 
Monsieur  Sacerdote.  And  the  dead  were  com- 
ing, too,  from  the  cemeter}' — the  good  dead,  the 
white  dead.  Far  up  above  the  ceiling  she  saw 
lights  and  flying  bodies — all  white !  all  white ! 
White  faces  and  white  gowns,  with  paper  wreaths 


OR,   THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  167 

of  her  own  manufacture,  dressed  for  the  morrow's 
festival.  They  had  come  at  her  cry ;  they,  too  ! 
they,  too ! 

What  noise — what  confusion  down  below  !  In 
the  room,  on  the  gallery,  in  the  yard,  on  the 
street.  What  cursing !  What  threats,  threats, 
threats !  Voices,  leaping  higher  and  higher  in 
the  effort  to  be  heard,  reaching  her,  and  dragging 
her  down  to  earth  again. 

"  Is  she  killed  ?"  "  Hold  the  woman  !"  "  Fling 
her  to  us  !"  "  Tie  her  hands  !"  "  Drag  her  out !" 
"  Secure  the  knife  !"  "  Police  !  Police  !"  "  No 
police  !  No  police  !"  "  Fling  her  to  us  !"  "  A 
doctor  !"     "  The  coroner  !" 

All  quiet  and  beautiful  around  her,  up  there  by 
the  ceiling.  So  sweet !  so  soft !  But  she  was 
pulled  down  like  a  balloon  to  where  the  loud 
tongues  of  Palmyre's  sisters  had  rallied  for  ready 
disculpation. 

"  Madrilene  didn't  do  anything  !"  "  Madrilene 
didn't  slap  Loulou  !"  "  That  she-devil  Palmyre  !" 
"  I  wish  to  God  she  was  dead !"  "  I  told  her 
so  !"  "  I  held  her  back  !"  "  And  I !"  "  And  I !" 
"  And  I !"  "  Loulou  is  rotten  !"  "  Loulou  rides 
over  us  all!"  "Tell  the  truth,  Madrilene!" 
"  Tell  the  God's  truth  !"  "  See,  she  can't  talk  !" 
"  She's  fainted  !"  "  She's  dead  !"  "  Palmyre  cut 
her !"  "  Palmyre  has  no  business  carrying  a 
knife  !"  "  I  tried  to  take  it  away !"  "  And  I !" 
"  And  I !"     "  She's  not  the  first  girl  Palmyre  has 


l68  MADRILENE  ; 

cut !"  "And  she's  won't  be  the  last,  I  tell  you  !" 
"  Here's  the  police  !"  "  Here's  the  doctor  !" 
"  Lift  her  up,  so  he  can  get  at  her  !" 

It  was  the  stranger  who  lifted  her  up.  Some 
one — old  Zizi  Mouton — threw  an  apron  over  her 
shoulders. 

A  groan  of  rage  fell  from  the  crowd  at  the  sight 
of  the  beaten  girl's  face.  Tempers  became  uglier, 
more  menacing ;  the  shrill  voices  of  Palmyre's 
sisters  more  pressing,  more  anxious. 

"  She's  only  pale  !"  "  She's  not  white !"  "  No, 
sir,  she's  not  white !"  "  She's  a  nigger  !"  "  She's 
no  more  white  than  me  !"  "  She's  told  a  lie !" 
"  Before  God,  she's  not  white  !"  "  We  are  all 
niggers  !"  "  It's  only  a  quarrel  between  niggers  !" 
"Niggers  will  fight!"  "No,  sir!  Palmyre  wouldn't 
touch  a  white  person  !  Palmyre's  no  fool !"  "  Ma- 
drilene's  our  cousin !"  "  She  is  Madame  Lais's 
niece !"  They  all  called  their  mother  Madame 
Lais ;  it  is  one  of  the  arrangements  of  their  class. 
"  Madrilene  knows  she  is  the  daughter  of  Rose- 
mond  Delaunay !"  "  She  is  buried  in  the  colored 
cemetery!"  "I  can  show  you  her  tomb  !"  "Ev- 
erybody knows  it !"  "  Ask  anybody  !"  "  Ask 
Madame  Lais  !"  "  Ask  Madrilene  herself !"  And 
the  chorus  recommenced  :  "  Tell  the  truth,  Ma- 
drilene !"     "  Tell  the  God's  truth  !" 

She  struggled  to  find  the  ground  with  her  feet, 
to  put  away  the  crowd,  to  say  one  word.  They 
would  all  go  away  then.     All — those  around  her. 


OR,   THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  169 

those  up  there.  They  thought  she  was  white — 
white  like  themselves.  Would  the  quadroon- 
faced  come  when  they  went  away  ?  The  white 
garments  with  quadroon  faces  and  hands  ? 

"I — I — I  am — I  am  not — I  only — called — the 
knife  !" 

If  she  could  only  push  the  words  between  her 
lips  !  But  they  burst  on  her  tongue  like  bubbles. 
She  felt  them,  the  words,  in  her  hands ;  if  she 
could  only  shove  them  where  all  would  see  them  ! 
But  they  weighed  down  her  arms  like  the  bead 
chaplet  in  the  cemetery.  If  Palmyre  only  had 
not  been  so  strong ! 

Her  head  fell  over  on  the  stranger's  shoulder 
and  her  eyes  closed,  and  she  began  again  to  as- 
cend, far,  far  above  them  all,  where  the  white 
forms  were  still  waiting  for  her  as  if  she,  too,  were 
white.  But  still  the  voices  from  earth  reached 
her  4nd  held  her  stationary.  If  some  one  would 
only  cut  the  voices,  and  let  her  rise— rise  never 
to  come  back  again  ! 

"  She  wanted  to  talk  !"  "  See  how  well  she 
looks !"  "  She's  only  weak !"  "  She's  been  bleed- 
ing!" "Hush!  She  hasn't  been  cut  at  all!" 
"  She  fell  over  a  hatchet !"  "  He,  Madrilbne,  how 
do  you  feel,  chere .?"  "  Madrilene,  did  you  get  the 
dinner  I  saved  for  you  in  the  kitchen  ?"  "  I  tried 
to  help  you,  didn't  I,  chere  ?"  "  See,  she  hears 
me !"  "  Madrilene,  you  remember,  don't  you, 
Toinette  tried  to  help  you?"     "Yes,  she  nodded 


lyo  MADRILENE  ; 

her  head."  "  I  never  did  have  any  use  for  Pal- 
myra !"  "  Palmyre's  temper's  too  quick."  "  I 
love  Madrilene  like  my  sister."  "  Madrilene  al- 
ways loved  me."  "  Who-o-o  !  look  at  all  the  po- 
lice !"  The  words  caused  a  scramble.  "  Here, 
let  me  go!"  "  Let  me  get  away,  quick  !"  "  For 
God's  sake,  don't  take  me  !"  "  I  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it!"  "I  wasn't  even  in  the  yard!" 
"  I  never  laid  eyes  on  Palmyra  and  Madrilene 
all  this  day  !"  "  I  swear  to  you  I  have  bean 
dressing  the  tomb  of  my  grandmother !"  "  I 
came  in  with  the  crowd  !"  "  Madrilene  knows 
nobody  was  here  but  her  and  Palmyre  !"  "  Ma- 
drilene could  talk  well  enough  if  she  wanted  to  !" 
"  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  her  !"  "  Pal- 
myre barely  touched  her  !"  "  Take  Palmyre ;  she 
was  the  only  one  !"  "Take  Madrilene  !"  "  Ma- 
drilene commenced  it !"  "  Madrilene  had  no 
right  to  beat  Palmyre's  child  !"  "  He  was  doing 
nothing  to  her  !"  "  Madrilene  drew  the  knife 
first !"  "  I  saw  her  do  it !"  "  I  swear  I  saw  her 
do  it !"  "  Palmyre  was  only  funning  !"  "  Pal- 
myre only  did  it  to  frighten  her !"  "  She's  not 
hurt !"  "  She's  only  making  out !"  "  Madame 
La — is  !"  "  Oh,  Madame  La — is,  they're  taking 
me  !"  "  Madame  La — is  I"  "  Where's  Madame 
Lais  ?"  "  She  was  here  a  moment  ago  !"  "  She 
ran  back  to  hide  !"  "  She  ran  back  to  lock  up !" 
"  That's  right,  Palmyra,  you  fight !"  "  Don't  go 
with  them!"     "They've  no  right  to  take  you!" 


OR,   THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  171 

"  You  let  me  alone !"  "  Take  your  hands  off 
me !"  "  I  won't  go  with  you !"  "  Go  to  the 
devil !"  "  I  won't  go  to  jail !"  "  I  wo — n't  go 
to  jail !"  "Madame  Lais,  oh,  Madame  Lais,  they 
are  taking  me  to  jail !"  The  women  could  be 
heard  far  down  the  street,  drawing  a  procession 
after  them. 

The  police  tried  to  question  the  girl.  She  could 
not  answer.  They  questioned  the  stranger.  He 
gave  them  his  name  and  address ;  he  had  heard 
threats,  suspected  rascality,  etc.  They  questioned 
Monsieur  Sacerdote,  hallooing  to  make  him  hear. 

"  They  have  found  Madame  Lais  !  They  are 
arresting  her !" 

"Oh!" 

"  She  won't  come.  They  are  dragging  her 
along." 

"Oh!" 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  What  are  you  doing 
here  ?  What  are  all  these  people  doing  in  my 
yard  ?" 

Madame  Lais  held  her  head  thrown  back,  just 
as  during  the  war,  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  she 
remembered  seeing  her   mistress,  old   Madame 

,  throw  her  head  back  when  invading  soldiers 

entered  her  house,  and  she  talked  to  the  white 
people  about  her  and  the  police  not  as  if  they 
were  soldiers,  but  negroes. 

"  I  order  you  to  quit  these  premises  on  the  in- 
stant ?     W^here  is  the  girl  ?     What  is  the  matter 


172  MADRILi;NE  ; 

with  her  ?  What  does  she  mean  by  screaming  in 
that  manner  ?  Here,  give  her  to  me.  Let  me 
attend  to  her." 

She  put  forward  her  hands  to  take  Madrilene 
from  the  stranger ;  he  put  them  aside,  and  felt 
that  they  were  wet  with  perspiration  and  colder 
than  Madrilene's.  Her  lips  were  trembling,  too, 
in  spite  of  her  efforts,  and  her  face — quadroons 
do  not  get  white,  they  blacken  for  pallors — 
black  spots  settled  around  Madame  Lais's  mouth, 
under  her  eyes,  on  her  cheeks.  In  her  assur- 
ance she  was  white ;  in  her  fear  she  was  all 
negro. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  What  have  you 
to  do  with  that  girl  ?  What  is  this  man  doing 
here  ?"  she  demanded  of  the  police.  "  It  is  an 
intrigue ;  it  is — " 

Old  Zizi  Mouton,  crouching  out  of  sight  be- 
hind the  stranger,  plucked  his  sleeve,  and  whis- 
pered, "  Send  her  to  the  calaboose  with  the  oth- 
ers." 

Madame  Lai's  shook  the  policeman's  hand  off 
her  arm.  It  was  an  arm  that  had  become  accus- 
tomed to  light  handling.  For  a  moment  she 
looked  the  enraged  quadroon,  like  her  daughter 
Palmyre. 

"  Do  not  dare  touch  me !  I  will  complain  to 
the  Governor !  I  will  complain  to  the  Mayor ! 
I  will  see  the  chief  of  police  !  I  will  have  you 
discharged  !     I  will  sue  for  damages  1" 


OR,   THE    FESTIVAL    OF    THE    DEAD.  173 

"  Have  her  arrested.  Send  her  to  the  cala- 
boose," whispered  Zizi  Mouton. 

"  I  have  money !  1  have  friends  who  will  pro- 
tect me  !      General  ,  Collector  ,  Major 

,  Colonel  ,  Dr.  ,  Judge  ,  Sen- 
ator   ,  Mr. ." 


The  police  themselves  fell  back  at  her  re- 
sources of  money  and  influence.  The  women  in 
the  mob  laughed. 

"Oh,  the  old  rascals!"  "Oh,  that  Lais!" 
"  Eh,  mon  Dieu !  let  me  go  home  after  that !" 
"You  heard  the  names,  heirs?"  "Lord!  Lord! 
Lord  !"  "  Send  her  to  the  calaboose."  Zizi  Mou- 
ton plucked  the  stranger's  arm  as  well  as  his 
sleeve. 

"  I  dare  you  to  arrest  me  !  I  dare  you!"  But 
even  in  the  prospect  of  success,  assurance  de- 
serted the  quadroon,  and  fear,  the  ugly,  gibber- 
ing African  fear,  took  possession  of  her.  "  Sir," 
she  pleaded  to  the  stranger,  "you  were  with  me 
at  the  time.  You  know  I  was  not  here.  For 
God's  sake,  don't  let  them  arrest  me.  It  will  ruin 
me.  The  property  of  the  boarders  lies  unpro- 
tected in  my  rooms.  My  house  has  never  been 
visited  before  by  the  police.  I  will  furnish  bond. 
I —  Take  Palmyre !  Punish  her !  Take  the 
girl.  Do  what  you  please  with  her.  Take  her  ! 
take  her  !"  Her  mind  was  in  a  panic.  God  only 
knew  what  she  feared. 

The  crowd  made  suggestions.     "  She  is  afraid 


174  MADRILENE; 

they  will  search  her  house !"  "  She  is  afraid  her 
boarders  will  be  coming  in !"  "  They  are  gentle- 
men who  do  not  like  to  get  their  names  in  the 
papers  !"  "  There  might  be  sensations  !"  "  It 
will  be  all  up  with  her  then  !" 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of  ?  Do  you  think  I  am 
going  to  run  away  ?"  continued  Madame  Lais. 
That  must  have  been  it,  for  the  police  hemmed 
her  in,  and  held  her  arms,  and  looked  in  her 
face,  and  the  stranger  made  no  sign  of  interven- 
tion in  her  favor. 

"  You  want  my  name  ?     Here  it  is." 

Ah,  she  had  a  choice  of  names.  She  had  only 
to  put  her  hand  out  and  take  from  the  commu- 
nity. Who  could  contradict  or  deny  were  they 
graven  all  over  her,  as  they  were  over  the  tomb- 
stones in  the  colored  cemetery  ?  But,  in  extrem- 
ity though  she  was,  she  was  discreet.  She  gave 
a  name  de  circonsfafice.  She  would  save  the  oth- 
ers for  the  great  emergency. 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  girl  ?" 

"  The  name  of  the  girl .?  Let  her  give  her  own 
name.     She  can  talk." 

She  was  slowly  coming  to  assurance  again. 

"  Make  her  give  the  name  or  send  her  to  the 
calaboose."  Zizi  Mouton  jostled  and  shook  the 
stranger's  arm, 

"  Everybody  knows  her  name — Madrilbne,  or 
Marie  IVIadeleine,  if  you  will." 

"  Marie  Madeleine  what?" 


OR,  THE    FESTIVAL   OF    THE   DEAD.  175 

"Marie  Madeleine ^ — nothing,"  shrugging  her 
shoulders.  They  must  understand  that,  these 
men. 

"  White  or  colored  ?" 

A  routine  question — mere  formality,  police  eti- 
quette. But  that  scream!  What  made  the  girl 
scream  that  ?  She  had  often  enough  been  asked 
the  question,  for  the  girl  was  light-colored,  and 
Lais  had  answered  it  glibly.  She  had  been  asked 
about  one  or  two  of  her  own  children.  What 
made  Madrilene  scream  that  ?  What  made  her 
scream  it  ?  Who  put  it  in  her  head  ?  What  was 
that  stranger  doing  there  ?  Could  he  be —  And 
old  Fantome  Sacerdote  ?  Fantome  Sacerdote,  he 
knew  her  of  old — knew  her  as  well  as  the  Collect- 
ors and  Senators  and  other  official  military  and 
civil  dignitaries.  And  the  time  was  passing.  Her 
house  must  be  silent,  dark,  discreet  by  midnight. 

"  White  or  colored  ?"  the  officer  of  police  re- 
peated, pencil  and  note-book  in  hand. 

Who  was  that  stranger  ?  .  .  .  White  ?  Oh  no  ! 
Say  Madrilene  was  white !  before  that  crowd ! 
There  was  Madrilene  herself.     "  Col — " 

Whence  came  that  lean,  crooked,  bent,  black 
figure  on  the  floor  in  front  of  her  ?  a  little  bent 
black  figure  with  brilliant  snake  eyes,  and  a  raised 
stick  of  curling,  tAvisting,  coiling  vines  like  snakes. 

Had  the  room  only  been  dark  that  Madame 
Lais  could  not  have  seen  it !  But  they  were  still 
fetching  in  lamps,  candles  —  lights  from  every- 


176  MADRILENE; 

where.  She  opened  her  mouth  again  to  answer, 
and  she  inflated  her  breast ;  her  tongue  was  dry 
— a  bone  —  and  her  breast  too  heavy  to  move. 
She  lifted  her  head  again  and  again.  Always  that 
voudoo  stick  raised  before  her  eyes  ;  always  those 
voudoo  eyes  fastened  on  her  face.  Why,  a  glance 
from  them  blighted  !  Spells  flew  around  them 
like  candle  bugs  ;  she  was  sending  them  in  swarms 
now  over  her  :  Lais  ! 

White  powders  and  black  powders,  babies' 
bones  and  snake  eggs,  and  those  hideous  hobgob- 
lins of  chicken  feathers  that  come  in  pillows  and 
mattresses,  rooster  combs  and  crossed  keys,  the 
herbs  and  grasses,  the  signs  and  symbols  that 
haunt  the  day;  and  the  black  June  nights,  the 
flame  of  spirits,  the  coiled  serpent,  the  writhing 
dance  of  naked  black  forms,  the  orgiac  round 
circling  in  and  out  of  shadows  and  light,  the  cast- 
ing away  of  clothes  of  decency,  the  "  tam  tarn  "  of 
the  gourd  drums,  and  the  monotonous  chant — 
Lais  saw  them  all  in  the  floor  before  her,  and  the 
omnipotence  of  the  "  Evil  One,"  and  the  omni- 
science of  the  "  old  people,"  and  the  patient  vin- 
dictiveness  of  old  Zizi  Mouton,  setting,  setting, 
hatching  vengeance  year  after  year,  and  blackness 
and  fear  rolling  over  and  ingulfing  her.  She  felt 
her  eyes  grow  haggard,  her  limbs  shake.  "  My 
God!  My  God!"  She  beat  the  air  with  her 
nerveless  hands. 

But  the  devil,  the  god  of  Zizi  Mouton,  he  was 


OR,  THE    FESTIVAL   OF   THE   DEAD.  177 

the  Stronger  god.  Lais  felt  that ;  she  knew  that ; 
now,  here.  The  god  of  the  negro  against  the  God 
of  the  white  man  ! — voudooed  !  voudooed  !  vou- 
dooed ! 

And  the  burden  in  the  stranger's  arms — it  rose 
stiff  and  stark  before  her.  Was  that  death  in  the 
long,  thin,  white  face  ?  Ah,  she  got  white  when 
she  paled ;  they  could  all  see  that.  Were  those 
staring  eyes  gazing  into  eternity.''  At  God,  or  at 
her,  Lais  ?  Was  that  tall,  thin,  pale  white  woman 
Madrilene,  her  servant,  her  drudge .''  Was  it 
rigor  mortis  that  held  that  bruised  arm  extended, 
pointing,  pointing  at  her,  Lais,  those  staring  eyes 
looking  at  her,  those  opened  falling  lips  ?  Had 
Palmyre  been  voudooed,  too,  to  commit  murder? 
Had  Zizi  Mouton  brought  the  gallows,  too,  to  Lais 
— the  gallows  and  hell,  burning,  flaming  hell  ? 

"Colored.?  No,  no!  White!  White,  I  tell 
you !  Do  you  hear  me  ?  White !  Take  that 
woman  away  !  Take  her  away !  Voudoo !  Snake- 
charmer  !     African !" 

Zizi  flung  Madril^ne's  black  and  white  bead 
memorial  on  the  floor  before  the  quadroon. 

"  No,  no  !  Take  her  away !  She  is  not  the 
daughter  of  Rosamond  Delaunay  !  My  God  !  my 
God  !"  She  fell  her  length,  with  hysterical  wail- 
ing. 

*'  Eh,  Lais,  coquine  !  Ta  pd  paye',  chere  !"'  (Ah, 
Lais,  rascal !     I  have  paid  you  up !) 

In  the  long-worked-for  moment  of  triumph,  Zizi 


1 78  MADRILENE  ; 

Mouton  renounced  her  supernatural  pretensions 
in  favor  of  enjoyment  of  human  revenge. 

"  The  'coon  gets  ahead  of  the  nigger  when  she 
is  young,  but  the  nigger  lives  long,  and  gets  even 
with  the  'coon  at  last.  Didn't  I  tell  you  the  truth, 
monsieur  ?"  To  the  stranger.  "  I  was  there  when 
the  gentleman  died.  I  knew  she  was  his  child. 
But  I  waited — I  waited  !  Ah,  Lais,  coquine,  you 
took  my  man — hein  ?     Ta  pe  paye,  chere  !" 

"  White  !  White  !"  Oh,  the  other  cry  was 
nothing  to  this !  That  one  filled  a  street,  this 
one  the  world !  White  !  It  joined  past  to  fut- 
ure. It  lifted  a  being  from  one  race  to  another. 
But  it  fell  like  the  weakest  sigh,  this  cry  from  the 
lips  of  Madrilene.  This  time  she  did  not  rise 
in  her  unconsciousness ;  she  sank  down,  down, 
through  sightlessness,  dumbness,  deafness,  to 
nullity. 

"  Get  her  to  a  bed  quick  !" 

"  Not  in  there  !"  Zizi  Mouton  arrested  them  at 
the  door  of  Madame  LaiVs  room.  "  In  the  fine 
front  room!  In  the  fine  front  bed!  Madame 
Lais  knows  why.  White  young  ladies  do  not 
sleep  in  the  bed  of  negroes."  The  old  voudoo 
led  them  to  the  bed  herself;  she  undid  the 
girl's  garments,  flinging  the  head-kerchief  aside. 
"  Eh,  Lais !  White  young  ladies  do  not  wear 
tignons  like  negroes !  He,  monsieur !  I  knew 
— I  knew  all  the  time,  but  I  waited.  Send  for 
the  doctor  ;  he  will  know,  he  will  remember.    Ask 


OR,  THE    FESTIVAL    OF   THE   DEAD.  179 

Fantome  Sacerdote  ;  he  will  remember ;  he  buried 
him.  Rosemond  Delaunay,  ha  !  Who  said  that  ? 
Madame  Lais  !"  Sucking  the  words  like  sugar 
between  her  toothless  gums.  "  Ah,  Lais,  coquine, 
ta  pe  paye,  chere  !" 


THE  CHRISTMAS  STORY  OF  A  LITTLE 
CHURCH. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  STORY  OF  A  LITTLE 
CHURCH. 

^T  was  a  little  ugly  brick  church,  and 
H  it  had  been  built  out  of  a  little  ugly 
brick  house — a  cheap,  made-over  con- 
cern. There  was  hardly  a  new  brick, 
a  new  nail,  or  a  hodful  of  new  mortar 
in  it.  What  could  possibly  be  made  use  of  had 
been  left  standing.  Of  what  had  been  torn  down, 
the  bricks  were  cleaned,  the  mortar  pulverized 
and  sifted,  and  the  nails  extracted  from  the  joists 
and  beams  :  such  a  spirit  of  economy  reigned  in 
the  erection  that  even  the  broken  pieces  of  slate 
from  the  roof  were  trimmed  and  put  in  a  pile  by 
themselves,  to  use,  instead  of  breaking  up  a  new 
one,  to  fill  up  a  corner  or  end  a  row. 

The  little  dago  girl  from  the  end  of  the  block 
was  the  indefatigable  observer  of  it  all,  as  if  she 
wanted  to  learn  the  process,  and  apply  it  herself, 
too,  one  of  these  days  to  the  changing  of  a  house 
of  the  devil  into  a  house  of  the  good  God.  For 
that  it  was  a  house  of  the  devil  no  one  in  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  town  had  much  doubt 


l84  THE    CHRISTMAS    STORY 

—  one  of  those  consular  buildings  of  a  great 
potentate  who  never  fails  to  provide  a  representa- 
tive in  every  town.  The  village  must  be  very 
small  and  insignificant  indeed,  and  blessed,  where 
there  are  not  more  than  one  of  these  official  resi- 
dents, and  the  villagers  not  enterprising,  or  pro- 
gressive, as  the  word  goes. 

The  neighbors  had  complained  of  the  house, 
the  servants  had  gossiped  about  it ;  the  very  gar- 
bage man,  looking  as  if  he  himself  had  been  fish- 
ed out  of  the  garbage  of  humanity  for  the  office, 
grumbled  that  he  had  to  add  its  leavings  to  the 
reeking  contents  of  his  cart,  and  when  he  could, 
neglected  it,  thus  insuring  a  further  malodor  to 
the  precincts ;  for,  as  he  reasonably  explained  to 
any  one  who  would  listen  to  him,  as  if  corrobo- 
rating also  a  questionable  fact  about  himself,  half 
drunk  as  usual,  on  account  of  his  profession,  "  I 
is  a  man,  if  I  does  drive  a  dirt-cart." 

As  everything  was  used  in  the  building  which 
could  be  used,  and  very  little  carried  away,  and 
as  the  former  building  had  been  bought  at  a  great 
bargain,  having,  it  seems,  depreciated  the  value  of 
the  land  upon  which  it  stood  and  the  tone  of  the 
surrounding  neighborhood,  the  conclusion  was  in- 
evitable to  the  little  girl  that  God  was  not  invest- 
ing much  money  in  the  affair,  perhaps  because 
He  had  not  much  to  invest.  It  was  a  financial 
condition  which  Marianna  understood  better  than 
any  other,  for  the  oyster  and  orange  trade  slack- 


OF    A    LITTLE    CHURCH.  185 

ened  at  times  to  a  degree  where  there  seemed  to 
be  no  cohesion  left,  and  dago  life  almost  hung 
on  one  cent  more  or  one  banana  less  to  the  price, 
and  the  street  could  hardly  contain  the  amount  of 
Sicilian  patois  expended  to  obtain  either,  when 
the  little  Marianna  with  her  nursling  was  forced 
to  wander  abroad  for  the  ordinary  peace  and 
comfort  necessary  to  the  human  mind,  dago  or 
otherwise.  It  was  in  this  way  she  saw  so  much 
of  the  building  of  the  church,  and  found  out 
that  money  was  as  scarce  in  heaven  as  on 
earth. 

"  When  will  it  begin  to  be  a  church  ?"  she  ques- 
tioned herself.  The  foundations  were  laid  down 
and  the  walls  went  up,  but  in  no  manner  differ- 
ent from  an  ordinary  dwelling  or  shop,  and  no- 
wise more  churchly.  It  was  evidently  to  be  a 
sudden  transformation.  Afraid  of  missing  the 
critical  moment,  she  was  at  her  post,  a  door-step 
opposite,  in  rain  or  shine,  as  regularly  as  the  brick- 
layers were  at  theirs,  persistently  looking  :  thanks 
to  the  baby's  constitution,  she  could  do  it.  If  it 
had  been  any  other  baby  it  would  have  died  long 
ago,  of  croup,  or  colic,  or  such  great  broad  teeth, 
or  ennui,  or  over-dieting  on  bananas ;  but  fortu- 
nately there  had  been  no  mistake — a  regular  dago 
baby  had  been  sent  to  the  dago  family ;  one  with 
black  hair  and  black  eyes,  and  an  orange  skin 
that  grew  out  of  dirt  into  cleanliness  like  an  or- 
ange, and  demanded  (not  that  it  would  have  got 


1 86  THE    CHRISTMAS    STORY 

it  for  the  demand)  no  expenditure  in  the  way  of 
washing. 

"  How  did  the  workmen  know  God  wanted  a 
church  built?"  "Who  paid  them  ?"  "  Who  gave 
them  orders  ?"  "  Were  the  workmen  who  built 
churches  different  from  the  workmen  who  built 
dago  houses,  for  instance  ?"  "  Did  they  feel 
they  were  building  a  church?"  "If  they  didn't 
build  it  well,  what  happened  to  them  ?"  Marian- 
na's  mind  was  constantly  occupied  with  such  in- 
terrogatories. It  was  a  Sicilian  mind,  and  had 
not  been  subjected  to  the  tamperings  of  educa- 
tion or  religion,  although  public  schools  offered 
the  one  in  every  district  of  the  city,  and  churches 
in  every  parish  begged  to  distribute  the  other. 

Suddenly  one  day  the  cross  was  put  upon  it,  a 
gray  painted  wooden  cross ;  and  then  the  build- 
ing became  a  church  as  quick  as  a  flash  of  light- 
ning. One  moment  before  it  might  have  been 
taken  for  a  warehouse  or  a  tall  stable ;  but  now 
there  could  be  no  mistake.  The  cross  said  it  all, 
and  said  it  well.  It  was  the  crown  of  thorns 
which  changes  the  face  of  a  simple  sufferer  into 
the  face  of  a  Saviour.  It  was  the  door-plate 
which  tells  who  lives  within,  and  the  child  sanc- 
tified the  edifice  in  her  mind  accordingly,  and, 
ugly  or  little,  saw  not  its  proportions  nor  de- 
fects henceforth. 

As  for  the  church  itself,  if  it  had  not  been  a 
church  it  must  have  felt  shamed,  humiliated,  de- 


OF   A    LITTLE    CHURCH.  187 

graded.  Not  only  made  of  second-hand  material, 
but  completed  in  such  niggardly  fashion  that  with 
the  exception  of  the  dago  cabin,  the  Chinese 
laundry,  and  the  locksmith's  shop,  it  was  the 
meanest  house  on  the  block.  The  boarding- 
house  opposite  was  a  palace  in  comparison,  the 
freedmen's  drinking  saloon  at  the  corner  more 
imposing ;  as  for  the  drinking  saloons  for  the 
fashionables,  on  the  fashionable  street,  the  paper- 
ing of  one  of  them  alone  would  have  paid  for  the 
church  and  the  ground  underneath,  not  to  men- 
tion the  mirrors,  pictures,  marbles,  and  cellars. 

In  fact,  the  little  church  could  look  nowhere 
from  the  elevation  of  its  cross  and  not  find  in- 
deed that,  judging  from  appearances,  God  was 
the  very  poorest  person  in  all  that  neighborhood. 
There  were  club-houses  around  the  corner  the 
initiation  fee  of  which  alone  was  a  minister's  sal- 
ary, and  beyond  the  club-houses  the  grand  bric-a- 
brac  shops,  the  milliners'  shops,  where  the  body  is 
clothed  and  beautified  at  such  a  price  that  the 
merest  trifles  on  the  counter  are  doubled  in  value 
to  pay  for  the  grandeur  of  being  sold  there  ;  and 
still,  beyond  all  this  the  cross  could  penetrate  and 
see  other  expenditures  and  displays  :  it  is  better 
to  imitate  the  ignorance  of  the  little  girl,  and  not 
enumerate  them.  What  would  become  of  little 
girls  in  a  great  city  if  God  did  not  frustrate  the 
devil  by  limiting  their  comprehension  ?  for  the 
prince  of  darkness  holds  no  intercourse  with  fools. 


100  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

But  the  cross  did  see  it  all,  and  the  little 
church,  if  any  knowledge  of  its  pre-existence  sur- 
vived in  its  brick  and  timber,  must  have  thrilled 
with  joy  to  think  that  the  cross  did  stand  on  top 
of  it  at  last — stood  up  there  to  watch  and  to  see, 
aye,  and  be  seen  too,  a  sign  as  well  as  a  symbol 
of  regeneration. 

If  the  church  could  feel  this,  and  the  very 
wooden  cross  on  top,  what  must  the  parson  have 
felt !  He  was  small  too,  so  small  that  he  certain- 
ly could  not  have  carried  his  heart,  not  one  day's 
work  of  it,  around  inside  his  cassock.  He  was 
insignificant  -  looking,  and  as  pale  as  a  white- 
washed house  which  the  owners  cannot  afford  to 
paint.  He  looked  somehow  second-hand  too, 
something  thrown  away  from  a  different  use  and 
picked  up  cheap,  a  made-over  sinner.  To  judge 
from  his  appearance,  he  also  was  small  recom- 
mendation of  his  employer.  Any  of  the  hand- 
some, well  -  dressed  gentlemen  in  the  boarding- 
house  opposite  would  have  made  more  creditable 
ministers ;  or  any  of  the  clerks  in  the  bar-rooms, 
for  bar  -  rooms  are  more  particular  about  their 
ministrants  than  churches  are.  Three-fourths  of 
the  men  who  thronged  the  bar-rooms  were  better 
equipped  physically  even  when  they  came  home 
at  night,  some  of  them  stumbling  against  the 
electric-light  poles.  As  for  the  clerks  in  the  oth- 
er shops,  they  were  better  dressed  and  better  cared 
for  than  the  Reverend  Herbert  Sting,  or  they  would 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  189 

not  have  been  employed  there.  Even  his  name 
was  about  the  poorest  and  least  attractive  in  all 
the  catalogue  of  human  appellations,  as  well  as 
the  most  inappropriate,  he  having  wandered  far 
away  from  any  inheritance  of  those  qualities  which 
made  it  a  complimentary  ancestral  title.  When 
people  had  objected  to  his  size,  figure,  color  of 
his  hair,  expression  of  his  face,  accent,  nose,  eyes, 
clothes,  and  walk,  they  filed  one  more  protest 
against  the  whole  business  and  connection  by,  if 
they  were  women,  condemning  the  incongruous 
name  of  Sting.  But  he  did  not  recognize  this  in 
the  least.  He  was  as  unconscious  of  the  objec- 
tions against  his  name  as  the  little  Marianna  was 
of  the  objections  against  her  neighborhood.  He 
pursued  his  way  as  indomitably  as  if  he  had  been 
called  St.  Paul  or  St,  Augustine,  or  the  British 
peerage  rifled  to  celebrate  his  aristocracy. 

We  all  know,  though  the  little  girl  did  not, 
whence  the  money  and  directions  came  for  the 
new  church  building.  The  primal  source,  if  di- 
vine, was  a  little  mixed.  The  congregation  of 
the  parish,  through  its  official  mind,  the  vestry, 
had  gradually  found  out  that  their  church  was 
simply  doing  a  breaking  business ;  that  while  the 
new  theatre,  started  on  a  venture  next  door,  was 
paying  dividends  on  its  investment,  while  new 
and  varied  shops  multiplied  and  throve  all  around, 
while  each  establishment  could  pay  and  did  pay 
for  its  scores  of  clerks,  its  light,  full  wear  and 


igo  THE    CHRISTMAS    STORY 

tear,  and  patronage  on  the  increase,  their  vener- 
able granite  edifice  had  to  confess  to  a  precarious 
income  and  a  diminishing  membership,  not  in  a 
month  fetching  as  many  to  a  sermon  as  went  in 
one  evening  to  the  ballet,  not  in  a  year  taking  in 
all  its  alms-basins  as  much  as  went  into  the  till 
of  the  least  patronized  saloon  of  them  all  in  a 
month.  They  could  not,  do  what  the  financiering 
vestry  would,  make  the  two  ends  meet — the  debt 
and  credit  ends — without  a  break  in  the  middle 
to  sprout  out  in  another  cancerous  debt.  And  so 
the  fact  was  no  longer  to  be  disguised  that  the 
old  church,  which  had  risen  out  of  the  early  virt- 
ues, was  slowly  sinking  under  the  later  vices  of 
the  city — sinking  as  surely  as  at  one  time  it  was 
believed  all  stone  buildings  would  sink  and  dis- 
appear in  the  marshy  soil  of  the  place.  They 
reduced  and  reduced  the  salary  of  the  minister 
until  living  within  it  was  a  feat  of  prestidigita- 
tion ;  they  lowered  and  lowered  the  gas  bill  until 
service  became  an  effort  of  memory ;  as  for  fires, 
the  zeal  of  devotion  was  all  the  guarantee  the 
blood  could  obtain  against  rheumatism,  neural- 
gia, and  catarrh  ;  and  then,  when  these  measures 
had  also  reduced  the  congregation  and  certified 
the  financial  failure,  they  determined  to  sell  the 
church  and  transport  the  proceeds  of  the  whole 
establishment  into  a  more  progressive,  enterpris- 
ing district,  to  plant  their  cross  where  souls 
would  not  only  come  to  be  saved,  but  pay  for  it. 


OF    A    LITTLE    CHURCH.  191 

As  for  the  vicious  souls  round  about  who  had 
neglected  their  opportunities  and  obligations, 
they  were  to  be  left  quietly  behind  in  the  evacu- 
ation, to  make  what  terms  they  could  with  the 
enemy. 

After  a  little  advertisement  and  judicious  puff- 
ing the  old  church  was  sold — all  sold,  with  the 
ground  it  stood  upon  ;  its  outfit  and  its  infit  too, 
though  this  was  not  mentioned  in  the  deed  of 
transfer.  Its  consecration,  its  dedication,  the  pi- 
ous will  of  the  old  gentleman  who  had  bequeathed 
the  lots  to  the  parish,  its  memories  and  associa- 
tions, its  spirits  of  dead  ministers  who  had  read 
and  preached  from  its  pulpit,  with  the  spirits  of 
dead  congregations  who  had  sat  under  them  in 
the  pews ;  the  graces  strengthened  by  confirma- 
tion, the  hungers  stilled  by  the  Lord's  Supper,  the 
marriage  troths  plighted  at  the  altar,  the  baptis- 
mal vows  taken  at  the  font,  and  the  cold  dark  place 
in  front  where  the  dead  rested  one  moment  more 
in  church,  amid  life,  to  hear  once  more  the  prom- 
ise of  resurrection,  ere  they  went  their  way  to  the 
tomb  to  await  its  fulfilment — all  sold,  with  the 
roofing  and  flooring  and  guttering,  the  glass  and 
slate  and  gas  fixtures. 

"  Sold  out  of  house  and  home  on  account  of 
failure  in  business,"  the  Saviour  like  any  one 
else. 

Walking  around  the  banquette  which  had  once 
encircled  the  church,  day  after  day,  night  after 


192 


THE   CHRISTMAS   STORY 


night — for  the  spot  had  a  fascination  for  him — 
the  Reverend  Herbert  had  strange  thoughts  and 
fancies,  particularly  at  night,  the  unreal  thoughts 
and  fancies  that  spring  from  unknown  seed  in 
the  virgin  soil  of  a  young  mind. 

Did  not  the  stars  hanging  so  low  over  the 
low  fiat  city,  threatening  to  fall  with  their  v.feight 
and  brightness  into  it — did  not  the  stars  miss  the 
tall  square  steeple  which  thrust  itself  up  among 
them,  and  made  of  them  jewels  to  ornament  its 
weather-beaten  head  ?  And  the  moon,  shedding 
its  benefaction  of  light  over  all  buildings  alike, 
good  and  bad,  humble  and  rich,  did  it,  in  the  mo- 
notonous expanse  of  roofs  and  chimneys,  look 
for  the  peaks  and  gables  which  it  must  have  been 
a  delight  to  gild  and  beautify  ?  The  sun,  rising 
damp  and  red  from  the  marsh,  had  always  sent 
its  first  rays  over  them,  and  its  last  also,  as  like 
a  great  fire-ball  it  sank  hot  and  dry  into  the  river. 
The  atmosphere,  once  ploughed  by  the  vigorous 
bell,  had  closed  in  over  the  space  now,  and  rip- 
pled with  many  sounds  and  noises,  but  none 
which  could  have  rejoiced  it  like  the  brazen 
clang  which  seemed  to  dissipate  the  clouds  of 
rainy  Sundays  and  dominate  the  violent  thunder. 

The  little  minister  could  always  see  the  church, 
however,  a  ghastly,  airy  structure,  hovering  over 
the  old  foundations  in  purified  resurrection,  and 
he  loved  to  think  he  could  see,  though  he  knew 
he  could  not,  the  figure  of  the  ancient  proprietor, 


OF   A    LITTLE   CHURCH, 


193 


wandering  around  his  alienated  domain  incog- 
nito like  some  deposed,  ill-treated  heir,  without 
rancor,  but  in  all  love  and  forgiveness  looking 
after  those  interests  connected  with  his  property, 
those  entailed  possessions  which  could  not  be 
sold  or  bartered  without  his  consent :  a  little  sing- 
ing beggar-girl,  a  gambling  newsboy,  a  desperate 
v/oman,  or  an  unprincipled  man — the  outcast,  the 
cripple,  the  inebriate.  Wherever  he  imagined 
this  white  -  clad,  barefooted  visitor  going,  there 
went  Herbert.  He  bent  over  what  he  saw  Him 
bend  over,  he  touched  what  he  saw  Him  touch, 
he  spoke  what  he  heard  Him  utter.  He  accom- 
panied Him  into  places  where  none  but  He  and 
the  police  could  go  with  impunity,  and  he  minis- 
tered with  Him  at  times  when  no  police  could 
have  been  paid  to  remain.  He  never  faltered  in 
thought  or  deed.  In  truth,  if  all  the  wickedness 
in  the  world  had  been  stored  for  deposit  in  Her- 
bert's heart,  he  could  not  have  known  more  about 
it,  been  less  shocked  at  it,  and  if  he  himself  had 
invented  all  loathsome  diseases  of  the  soul  and 
body,  he  could  not  have  more  readily  applied  the 
antidote  or  suggested  the  alleviation. 

Indeed,  in  the  delirium  of  agony  sufferers 
would  sometimes  take  him,  the  accessory,  for  his 
principal,  and  so  hail  and  bless  him,  notwith- 
standing the  contradiction  of  his  threadbare 
clothes  and  homely  features. 

As  he  saw  the  old  church  pulled  down,  the  idea 


194  THE   CHRISTMAS   STORY 

came  to  Herbert  that  another  one  must  be  built 
in  the  place  of  it.  The  idea  came  not  only  to 
him,  but  to  all  those  who  could  not  afford  to  ride 
in  the  cars  to  the  desirably  progressive  locality 
selected  by  the  vestry  for  the  new  church  ;  to 
all  those  who  had  attached  themselves  like  cats 
to  the  old  locality,  for  romantic  reasons,  over 
which  they,  like  cats,  have  no  control ;  to  all  the 
constitutional  kickers  against  authority,  civil  or 
religious  ;  to  all  lukewarm  enemies  or  lukewarm 
friends  of  the  empirical  vestry;  to  the  Sunday- 
school  children  who  felt  perhaps,  and  were,  more 
aggressive  than  all.  The  idea  came  to  a  suffi- 
cient variety  and  number  to  warrant  co-operation 
in  an  effort,  and  the  effort  was  sufficiently  vigor- 
ous to  bring  from  an  idea  into  being  the  identi- 
cal little  church  of  this  story. 

It  is  almost  as  much  labor  to  destroy  as  to 
build  a  church.  They  could  not  shoot  it  down 
with  cannon,  they  could  not  burn  it  down  in  the 
good  old  way.  The  carpenters  did  the  best  they 
could,  poor  men,  with  their  peaceable  instruments 
and  peaceable  hearts,  reversing  the  natural  order 
of  their  profession,  travelling  down  from  the  top- 
most spire  of  the  steeple,  prizing  out  posts,  chis- 
elling out  bricks,  brick  by  brick,  down  to  the 
foundation.  The  first  tap  of  the  hammer  sound- 
ed to  poor  Herbert  like  a  slap  on  a  dead  giant's 
face. 

It  was  all  so  solid,  so  massive,  the  plan  was  so 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  195 

perfect,  the  materials  so  good,  the  workmanship 
so  honest!  If  it  had  only  been  a  prosperous 
church  it  might  have  lasted  ages.  Nothing  would 
totter,  nothing  would  fall,  nothing  would  even 
shake  itself  loose ;  it  was  a  unanimous  position 
of  resisting  protest,  passive  stability :  "  I  can  be 
destroyed,  but  I  cannot  surrender." 

At  last  it  was  all  taken  down,  and  the  dismem- 
bered parts  buried,  contractors  only  knew  where, 
second-hand  stuff  from  churches  fetching  no 
higher  price  than  from  any  other  edifice.  The 
space  was  cleared  and  swept,  and  with  bright  new 
material  a  grand  circus  was  erected  in  it,  a  show 
and  a  wonder  to  the  banquette  idlers.  The  ring 
was  described  in  what  had  been  the  body  of  the 
church,  the  trapezes  hung  from  the  ceiling,  the 
orchestra  sat  in  the  old  altar.  Through  the  doors 
on  the  side,  where  surpliced  boys  and  ministers 
used  to  march  singing,  the  horses  pranced  and 
clowns  tumbled  and  velocipede  girls  whirled.  A 
grand  novelty  circus,  so  it  was,  a  magnificent  cir- 
cus, and  patronized  by  such  numbers  that  man- 
agers and  performers  were  not  only  paid,  but  mu- 
nificently paid,  and  were  making  a  happy  fortune 
out  of  it.  So  much  so  that  if  the  church  people 
had  only  had  the  wit  to  do  themselves  that  which 
they  had  sold  out  for  others  to  do,  they  would 
have  been  able  to  construct  a  grand  cathedral  in 
the  new  fashion  locality,  and  paid  people  well  for 
attending  it. 


196  THE   CHRISTMAS   STORY 

The  circus  was  octagonal,  with  arched  sides, 
and  under  every  arch  were  places  of  attractive 
resort  of  all  kinds,  and  so  attractive  that  at  night 
frightened  inhabitants  screamed,  whistled,  rattled 
in  vain  for  policemen,  until  some  volunteer  would 
hasten  thither  and  fish  the  officer  of  justice  out 
of  one  of  the  octagonal  rooms,  as  surely  as  a  boy 
in  spring-time  fishes  larvte  out  of  a  wasp's  nest. 

The  minister  thought  many  a  time  what  a  mi- 
raculous draught  St.  Peter  would  make  again  if 
he  could  but  cast  his  net  over  the  whilom  place 
of  worship  ! 

When  the  little  dago  girl  had  nothing  more 
to  look  at,  when  walls,  roof,  floor,  and  cross  were 
in  place,  pews  carried  in,  shavings  and  blocks  car- 
ried out,  workmen  dismissed,  she  naturally  con- 
cluded that  the  church  was  completed  and  ready 
for  the  abode  of  Him  to  whom  it  belonged.  She 
knew  no  more  of  the  inside  workings  of  a 
church  than  of  the  inside  workings  of  a  clock, 
and  Herbert  was  very  little  wiser  than  the  child, 
for  it  was  his  first  church.  The  quantity  of 
springs  and  machinery  necessary  was  indeed 
enough  to  surprise  and  confuse  a  tyro.  The 
ladies  came  in,  whence  neither  he  nor  any  one 
else  could  tell ;  they  swarmed  about  the  church 
like  insects  about  sugar ;  only  they  possessed 
what  insects  lack,  organization.  By  authority  of 
what  tradition,  by  order  of  what  transmissions 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  197 

or  laying  on  of  hands,  in  what  version  of  the 
Testament,  Old  or  New,  they  read  their  title 
and  commission,  or  whether  they  had  any  au- 
thority, divine  or  human,  for  it  at  all,  whether 
the  whole  legislation  was  not  an  unwarranted 
act  of  assumption,  Herbert  did  not  question  or 
investigate  the  matter.  He  quietly  submitted, 
and  with  his  church  bowed  under  the  guild  to 
whose  mysterious  care  the  parish  had  by  occult 
power  been  confided.  The  guild  was  composed  of 
chapters,  and  the  chapters  were  so  numerous  that 
every  active  worker  was  fractionally  represented  in 
them,  to  look  after  some  fractional  division  of  the 
church,  the  service,  and  the  minister.  It  takes  a 
very  large  church  to  woman  all  its  chapters,  and 
provide  meeting-places  for  them.  Judge  how  the 
little  church  was  taxed  for  both,  when  they  all  came 
together — condensed,  as  it  were — on  special  occa- 
sions :  Building,  Altar,  Vestment,  Choir,  Library, 
Sunday-school,  Industrial  School,  Mission,  Visit- 
ing chapters,  with  presidents,  vice-presidents,  sec- 
retaries, treasurers,  and  members.  They  atoned 
for  the  smallness  of  their  number  by  the  multitude 
of  their  opinions  ;  they  represented  not  a  volume, 
but  a  library  of  dissenting  sentiments  worthy  the 
greatest  church  in  the  land.  There  were  just 
about  days  enough  in  the  week  to  contain  the 
meetings,  and  none  left  over  for  pacification,  ex- 
cept Sunday,  which  grew  in  importance  as  a  kind 
of  "  Truce  of  God,"  without  which  church  busi- 


igo 


THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 


ness  would  have  been  an  unfinished  story.  For 
instance,  whoever  crossed  Mrs.  Bunnyfeather  in 
the  Altar  Chapter,  crossed  the  secretary  of  the 
Choir,  the  president  of  the  Visiting,  the  treasurer 
of  the  Sunday-school,  and  the  vice-president  of 
the  Library  chapters,  and  broke  a  quorum  in  all 
the  other  chapters.  And  when  Mrs.  Goodenough 
(which  is  a  name  the  constitution  should  forbid) 
was  made  to  weep  by  unkind  remarks  over  the 
laundrying  of  the  Reverend  Herbert's  one  vest- 
ment— a  shrunken,  narrow,  transparent  surplice 
— parliamentary  rules  were  suspended  by  accla- 
mation until  the  sensitive  lady  was  soothed  and 
the  remarker  rebuked,  for  it  was  an  early  Monday 
morning,  and  never  a  meeting  could  have  been 
held  during  the  week.  After  he  had  learned  by 
practice  and  discipline  to  steer  clear  of  organiza- 
tions, the  young  minister  found  that  he  could  not 
walk  from  portal  to  pulpit  without  tripping  against 
individual  solicitude.  The  motherly  ones  were 
always  there  to  tender  advice,  the  sisterly  ones  to 
ask  it ;  and  poor  as  he  was  pecuniarily,  and  thin 
and  miserable  to  look  at,  there  was  not  a  mother 
among  them  who  did  not  accuse  some  other  moth- 
er of  trying  to  catch  him  for  a  daughter,  and  not 
a  sister  whose  heart  did  not  occasionally  beat 
with  ill-feeling  against  some  other  sister  on  ac- 
count of  him. 

But  though  to  the  pastor  they  all  appeared  to 
be  pulling  in  as  many  diiTerent  directions  as  there 


OF    A    LITTLE    CHURCH.  igg 

were  names  in  the  chapters,  the  general  tenden- 
cy was  forward,  and  the  new  little  church  was 
jerked  and  pulled  and  tugged  along  through  Oc- 
tober, November,  and  into  December  without  more 
than  one  serious  stalling  a  week,  and  a  jar  a  day. 
If  they  had  not  been  women,  and  the  man  a  Her- 
bert, it  would  have  jolted  into  some  big  rut  and 
stayed  there  forever,  a  wreck  on  time,  and  never 
have  reached  December  at  all,  not  to  speak  of 
Christmas  Eve. 

The  little  Marianna  had  changed  her  position. 
She  had  crossed  over  the  street,  and  now  sat  with 
the  baby  in  her  arms  in  a  corner  of  the  stone  steps. 
Sheltered  from  the  rain,  there  was  little  cold  to 
dread  ;  the  bright  blue  sky  overhead  was  as  Sicil- 
ian as  her  own  hair  and  features.  She  silently 
watched  the  entrances  and  exits  of  the  young 
priest,  as  she  called  him,  the  assembling  and  dis- 
banding of  the  various  yet  unvaried  committees, 
theorizing,  perhaps,  on  the  passers-by,  who  seem- 
ed to  be  arbitrarily  separated  in  kind  and  degree 
by  the  different  hours  of  the  day,  and  walked 
along  in  their  different  costumes  on  their  differ- 
ent avocations,  as  if  fulfilling  some  predestined 
fate  rather  than  individual  volition.  The  passers- 
by  must  have  theorized  about  her.  Immovably 
constant,  she  was  to  them  as  fixed  in  her  place 
as  if  she  had  been  built  there  with  the  church,  or 
sculptured  and  set  up  for  ornament.  A  pretty 
ornament,  and   not   inappropriate,  for   she   had 


200  THE    CHRISTMAS    STORY 

the  proper  turn  of  the  neck,  the  proper  droop 
of  the  shoulders,  the  sweet,  modest,  soft  eyes, 
and  the  proper  clasp  of  the  arms  around  an  in- 
fant which  God  has  given  to  her  nation  that  sculpt- 
ors might  have  a  model,  that  painters  might  paint, 
and  mankind  know  the  portrait  of  the  Madonna. 

The  young  priest  sat  almost  as  immovably  in- 
doors when  the  church  business  was  all  transact- 
ed, the  chapters  all  gone,  and  he  and  the  good 
Lord  were  in  the  way  of  no  one  except  Mrs.  Bun- 
nyfeather,  who  worried  over  his  conduct,  think- 
ing it  altogether  inexplicable,  if  not  improper,  not 
to  mention  Romanistic,  necessitating  a  new  chap- 
ter— Ministerial  Conduct. 

One  evening  in  December,  at  the  time  when 
the  sinking  sun  made  rainbows  through  the  west- 
ern windows,  and  his  thoughts  travelled  easiest 
the  heavenward  journey,  a  woman  rushed  up  the 
aisle  of  the  church  to  the  altar,  a  pale,  wild-eyed 
woman,  holding  a  bundle  in  her  arms. 

"Will  you  christen  her,  sir.? — will  you  christen 
her?  For  God's  sake  christen  her,  to  save  her 
soul !"  She  held  the  bundle  towards  him,  and 
began  to  untie,  unwind,  untwist  it,  with  fingers 
all  disobedient  and  astray  as  to  their  proper  vo- 
cations, and  so  slow  that  her  feet  began  to  give 
way,  and  she  would  have  fallen  on  her  hopelessly 
entangled  bundle  if  the  minister  had  not  caught 
it  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  eased 
her  to  the  ground. 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  201 

"  I'm  only  dizzy,  sir — I'm  only  dizzy  and  weak. 
I've  just  been  discharged  from  the  Charity  Hos- 
pital." 

She  lay  back  against  the  steps  of  the  altar  and 
closed  her  eyes.  Shade  after  shade  of  gray  and 
blue  pallor  palled  over  her  thin,  pinched  features. 
Her  long  limbs  lay  as  stiff  and  straight  under  her 
calico  gown,  as  they  had  lain  under  the  sheets  of 
her  cot  at  the  hospital.  And  as  she  vibrated 
back  and  forth  in  and  out  of  unconsciousness  her 
cheek  sank  wearily  against  the  step,  as  if  it  were 
a  soft  pillow,  or  turned  away  from  it,  repulsed  by 
the  coldness  of  the  timber.  She  did  not  attempt 
to  rise  nor  to  look  at  him,  but  talked  along 
dreamily,  almost  deliriously. 

"  The  Sisters  would  have  christened  her,  but  I 
wouldn't  let  them.  They  would  have  put  her  in 
one  of  their  asylums.  The  Sisters  would  have 
christened  her  and  put  her  in  an  asylum.  The 
Sisters — " 

She  became  conscious  of  the  repetitions  of  her 
tongue,  and  by  a  struggle  raised  herself  to  a  sit- 
ting posture  and  relieved  her  thoughts. 

There  is  no  telling  how  old  a  sick  woman  is. 
As  she  lay  on  the  ground  she  looked  weazened 
and  shrivelled  ;  yet  her  way  of  hiding  her  face  in 
her  arm,  and  her  petulant  opposition,  were  very 
childish. 

"  There's  no  need  for  her  to  be  damned  too,  is 
there,  sir  ?" 


202  THE   CHRISTMAS   STORY 

The  face  that  looked  out  from  the  shawl  was 
as  old  as  the  mother's,  and  so  red  and  wrinkled, 
and  with  such  an  unpromising  outlook  for  the 
soul,  that  the  minister  felt  he  could  assume  the 
responsibility  of  a  decided  negative. 

"  They  said  she  was  a  fine  child  ;  Tm  sure  she's 
very  pretty;  don't  you  think  so,  sir?" 

There  was  a  huge  stone  font,  which  the  guild 
had  begged  from  a  pious  stone-cutter.  It  was 
as  large  as  a  child's  bath-tub,  and  not  unlike  one 
in  shape — a  font  in  which  babies  by  the  half-dozen 
could  have  been  immersed.  And  there  was  a 
small  pitcher  of  water  which  the  kind  old  colored 
sexton  daily  placed  in  a  corner  of  the  choir  for  the 
minister's  refreshment.  As  careless  of  the  ritual 
as  the  Saviour  had  been  before  him  in  all  his  cer- 
emonies, ignoring  the  printed  requirements  of  his 
prayer-book,  and  trespassing  against  ecclesiasti- 
cal etiquette  in  almost  every  word  and  gesture, 
Herbert  administered  the  rite,  humbly  praying 
on  his  own  behalf,  at  the  end  of  it,  that  the  good 
Lord  would  stand  by  him  on  the  last  day,  when 
his  bishop,  before  which  dignitary  ministers  like 
Herbert  are  the  worms  of  the  earth,  should  find 
out  the  full  irregularity  of  the  proceeding. 

"What  is  her  name?"  he  asked,  not  in  the 
formal  conventional  tone,  for  he  did  not  venture 
to  bring  the  dignity  of  the  Church  into  the  trans- 
action ;  it  was  only  a  matter  of  a  fortnight-old 
soul,  between  the  Lord  and  himself. 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  203 

The  woman  had  risen.  He  saw  now  that  she 
was  really  young,  and  had  been  pretty. 

"Oh,  sir,"  with  a  twist  of  her  head,  "do  you 
think  Daisy  would  be  too  good  for  her  ?  Daisy 
is  such  a  beautiful  name  !  I  read  about  a  Daisy 
once  in  a  novel." 

Decidedly  she  was  very  young.  He  christened 
her  Daisy,  and  cast  about  for  some  saint  with 
whom  he  might  take  a  liberty.  He  remembered 
his  mother,  a  saint,  though  not  jn  the  calendar; 
her  name  was  Elizabeth  ,•  so  he  made  up  "  Daisy 
Elizabeth,"  and  for  what  an  informal  baptism  was 
worth  the  little  child  in  his  arms  lay  indebted. 

"  I  can  carry  her  now,  sir ;  I  was  only  a  little 
weak.  I  should  have  left  the  hospital  yesterday , 
my  time  was  up ;  but  the  Sisters  wouldn't  let  me. 
It  was  raining,  so  they  made  me  stay  one  day 
longer." 

She  was  standing  right  in  a  rainbow,  looking 
through  the  colors  younger  and  younger,  prettier 
and  prettier ;  the  church  was  already  beginning 
to  get  dark  in  the  corners. 

"  The  Sisters  were  very  kind  ;  they  would  have 
put  her —  But  I  was  an  asylum  girl  myself, 
sir." 

Oh,  the  mother-lack  and  the  father-lack  in  that 
plaintive  confession  !  It  sounded  through  the  lit- 
tle church  like  a  wail  from  all  the  sun-bonneted, 
uniformed  little  girls  foredoomed  to  heart  misery 
in  asylums.     She  turned,  and  with  uncertain  feet, 


204  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

unaccustomed  to  her  light  weight,  went  out  of  the 
church. 

It  was  a  fiction  of  his  imagination,  and  he  knew 
it;  but  if  the  good  Lord  had  been  there,  He  would 
have  followed  her,  would  have  taken  the  young 
woman  under  the  arm  and  conveyed  her  to  a 
sure,  comfortable  retreat,  just  as  Herbert  thought 
he  saw  Him  do,  just  as  Herbert  did  himself. 

There  were  questions  to  be  asked,  information 
statistically  useful  to  be  obtained.  As  a  clergy- 
man he  was  empowered  to  satisfy  his  curiosity ; 
but  he  had  none.  Why  should  he  surmise  six- 
teen instead  of  knowing  it .''  why  steadfastly  over- 
look her  marriage  finger  ? — who  she  was  ? — what 
she  was  ? — a  little  woman  with  a  child — a  new 
mother  in  the  world  with  a  pathetic  body  stagger- 
ing from  the  ordeal,  and  a  heart  most  carefully, 
most  femininely  concealed. 

She  walked  rapidly,  trying  to  look  business- 
like, trying  to  deceive  people.  But  the  white 
women  they  met  looked  their  comments ;  the 
black  ones  uttered  theirs  coarsely  with  laughter, 
glad  to  find  a  flattering  equality  of  vice  ;  and  the 
men — she  shrank  and  winced  at  every  one  that 
passed,  clinging  more  and  more  helplessly  to  the 
arm  that  supported  her. 

The  sun,  as  usual,  had  saved  cityfuls  of  warmth 
and  brightness  for  Christmas  week,  and  was  up 
bright  and  early  Christmas  Eve,  eager  to  com- 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  205 

mence  the  donation.  In  the  gardens  the  bushes 
had  still  a  reserve  stock  of  flowers  all  ready  to 
blossom  out  when  the  sun  gave  the  signal.  May 
must  have  effected  a  change  with  December  ;  for 
if  ever  a  bright,  joyous,  exhilarating,  bouncing 
May  rushed  in  rosy  and  laughing,  among  the 
months  of  the  year  with  exaggerations  of  warmth, 
show,  glitter,  sunshine,  and  blue  sky,  that  month, 
or  week  of  it,  came  on  the  24th  of  December  to 
a  certain  city,  and  fell  all  in  a  heap  around  a  cer- 
tain church.  And  the  largesses  of  nature  were 
imitated,  if  not  surpassed,  by  the  people.  All  the 
poor  had  to  do  was  to  name  their  menu  for  Christ- 
mas dinner,  and  they  got  it,  and  the  older,  the 
poorer,  the  uglier,  the  more  disreputable,  the  more 
certainty  of  getting  it.  Christmas-trees  sprouted 
in  every  asylum,  and  if  ever  orphans  had  occa- 
sion to  forget  the  loss  of  parents  they  had  it  that 
night.  Sunday-schools,  yielding  and  consenting, 
finally  embraced  foolishness,  and  spent  money 
hoarded  for  foreign  missions  on  cakes,  candy,  and 
lemonade  for  the  heathen  at  home.  Santa  Claus 
was  expected  ubiquitously  in  all  the  hospitals  in 
the  city  at  once,  and  anticipation  thwarted  ano- 
dynes in  the  children's  wards.  The  generous  gave 
until  they  almost  destroyed  all  prospects  for  future 
giving;  the  mean  and  stingy  gave ;  even  the  rich 
and  fashionable  gave.  The  commercial  exchanges 
all  gave,  and  the  clubs  almost  got  a  majority  in 
favor  of  the  annual  motion  for  a  grand  newsboys' 


206  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

dinner.  The  butchers  sent  complimentary  roasts, 
the  grocers  cordials,  the  confectioners  bonbons, 
to  their  customers.  From  the  city  went  oysters, 
oranges,  and  good  wishes  to  the  country;  the 
country  responded  also  with  eggs  and  monstrous 
turkey-gobblers.  There  may  have  been  some  un- 
fortunates who  did  not  receive,  but  there  were 
none  who  did  not  yield  to  the  season,  climate, 
and  the  prodigality  of  their  natures  by  giving.  If 
there  were  any  babies  born  on  Christmas  Eve — 
and  there  must  be  some,  for  it  is  said  they  are 
born  half-minutely  all  over  the  world — and  if  they 
had  any  recollection  whatever  of  the  blessed  king- 
dom they  had  left,  they  must  have  stifled  their 
sharp  birth-cry  of  disappointment,  pain,  and  re- 
gret ,  for  this  spot  of  earth  was  so  full  of  good- 
will, so  bright,  so  redolent  of  flowers  and  peace, 
that  they  could  not  have  been  otherwise  than 
glad  to  come  here. 

"  But,"  thought  Herbert,  walking  his  beat  from 
the  old  church  to  the  new,  "  the  reachings  of 
money  are  limited.  There  are  other  wants  that 
need  other  currency.  Empty  hearts  may  be  hung 
like  empty  stockings  on  Christmas-trees  this  night 
which  no  Santa  Claus  is  coming  to  fill  —  the 
mother  who  sits  by  an  empty  cradle,  the  husband 
who  stretches  out  his  arms  in  the  dead  of  night 
for  his  absent  wife,  and  the  wife  swathing  her 
bleeding  heart  in  widow's  weeds.  The  old  pen- 
sioners, looking  around  vainly  in  their  eleemosy- 


OF    A    LITTLE    CHURCH.  207 

nary  shelter  for  comrade,  kith  and  kin,  to  pass 
the  feast-night,  chide  death  for  tarrying.  The 
old  maid,  my  cousin  Ruth,  who  sits  in  a  grudging 
home  sewing  for  another's  children,  who  mock  at 
her  loneliness  and  lovelessness,  sees,  alas !  the 
vision  of  her  own  children  that  might  have  been  ! 
And  the  old  bachelor  sitting  in  his  club  window, 
drinking  whiskey-and-water  to  keep  up  his  spir- 
its and  frighten  away  the  ghosts  of  the  past,  the 
realities  of  the  present,  his  sordidness,  meanness, 
selfishness,  what  exorcism  does  he  exercise  against 
them  ?  An  asylum  boy  or  a  sick  child  in  the  hos- 
pital is  happier  on  Christmas  Eve  than  he  !" 

Night  had  fallen  as  low  as  it  could  over  the 
broad  brilliant  street.  The  tall  electric  -  light 
poles  held  the  darkness  aloof  like  a  canopy  over 
a  saturnalia.  The  deep,  narrow  shops  from  un- 
der their  beetling  galleries  gleamed  out  Golcon- 
da  splendors.  In  the  show-windows  jewels  and. 
precious  metals,  brocades  and  laces,  pictures,  por- 
celains, fans,  feathers,  and  crystals,  were  displayed 
as  mere  advertisements  of  the  greater  beauties 
within.  Violets,  roses,  and  jasmines  mingled 
their  fragrance  on  the  flower  corner,  and  almost 
beautified— so  sweet  and  fresh  they  were — the 
withered,  faded  faces  of  their  venders,  the  flower- 
girls  of  half  a  century  ago.  The  banquettes  held 
their  usual  kirmess  of  nations  :  white,  black,  yel- 
low, in  rags,  in  silks,  in  velvets,  old,  young,  mid- 
dle-aged, handsome  and  hideous,  and  a  babel  of 


203  THE    CHRISTMAS    STORY 

tongues  that  taxed  the  versatility  of  the  noisy 
itinerant  peddlers  with  their  new  stock  of  wares, 
impudence,  and  wit  for  Christmas  Eve. 

Christmas  was  setting  in  in  earnest,  the  trop- 
ical, maddening,  typical  Christmas  of  the  place  ; 
Christmas  that  comes  but  once  a  year,  to  make 
good  the  long,  dull,  hot  days  of  summer  ;  to  defy 
the  chill,  pleasureless  days  of  old  age ;  to  remind 
young  and  old  of  the  shortness  of  life  and  the 
sweetness  of  it.  The  horn -blowing  had  com- 
menced, too — all  sorts  of  horns,  blown  by  all  sorts 
of  lips  :  great  horns,  borne  on  the  shoulders  of 
tall  men,  bestridden  by  manikins,  and  blown  by  a 
united  effort ;  little  horns  tooted  by  street  raga- 
muffins, impudently  blown  in  the  faces  or  mali- 
ciously blown  in  the  ears  of  the  dignified  and  un- 
wary ;  horns  by  scores,  by  fifties,  by  hundreds, 
matching  the  lights  by  tlieir  multitude,  involving 
ears  as  well  as  eyes  in  their  confusion  ;  joyous, 
melancholy,  melodious,  and  discordant  horns ; 
horns  that  produced  tunes,  and  horns  that  were 
barren  of  all  but  noise  ;  exciting,  fretting,  whip- 
ping up  the  blood,  kindling  it  like  tinder,  sending 
it  off  in  screams  and  explosions  like  the  fire- 
crackers that  danced  on  the  streets  under  the 
horses'  feet.  And  the  subtle  nocturnal  influences ; 
the  excitation  of  money- spending,  the  delicious 
consciousness  of  losing  self-control,  the  extrava- 
gances, the  unrestricted  expressions,  the  hilarity, 
the  equalities,  the  friction  of  humanity,  the  gro- 


OF   A    LITTLE   CHURCH. 


209 


tesque  banquette  procession,  where  out  of  strange 
faces  gleamed  eyes  bright  with  incipient  conta- 
gion of  vicious  blood  :  it  was  Christmas  with  a 
latent  symptom  of  orgy  in  it ! 

Herbert  looked  not  above  for  the  aerial  spires 
of  the  old  church,  nor  about  for  the  Vision  which 
usually  guided  his  steps ;  it  was  not  His  hour  yet. 
He  hastened  on  and  around  the  corner,  and  reach- 
ed his  own  little  church.  His  hand  was  on  the 
door  to  close  it.  "  Should  every  house  be  open  and 
hospitable  on  this  His  birth-night  and  not  His 
own  sanctuary  ?  Who  am  I,  that  I  should  selfishly 
be  His  only  guest  ?"  He  propped  it  wide  open,  as 
if  for  service,  and  entered  the  gray  gloom  inside. 
The  electric  light  over  the  way  threw  a  mild  radi- 
ance up  the  aisle  to  the  steps  of  the  chancel,  gar- 
nished for  the  morrow's  feast. 

The  labors  of  all  the  committees  of  ladies  had 
ended,  and  so,  he  hoped,  had  their  wranglings 
over  the  decorations.  The  wranglings  were  not 
to  be  charged  to  their  discredit,  for  the  excite- 
ment of  the  day  was  upon  them,  and  the  vexing 
contrast  between  the  poverty  of  their  own  and 
the  wealth  of  other  churches.  Their  hearts  (fool- 
ish women's  hearts)  hankered  after  possibilities 
beyond  attainment,  their  spirits  grieved  over  the 
acute  disappointment  of  what  could  not  be,  and 
their  tongues  became  partisans  and  disseminators 
of  discontent.  If  the  motto  had  been  "  Discord 
and  Ill-will,"  instead  of  the  contrary,  it  would 


2IO  THE    CHRISTMAS    STORY 

have  been  far  more  appropriate  to  the  state  of 
mind  whicli  pervaded  the  discussions  as  to  where 
it  should  be  hung. 

He  had  a  lamp  in  the  choir  and  books  for 
evenings  when  he  felt  inclined  to  pursue  the  vast 
science  of  theology,  of  which  he  was  so  lamentably 
ignorant.  He  waited  to-night,  however,  until  his 
eyes  had  become  accustomed  to  the  quieting  ob- 
scurity and  his  ears  delivered  of  the  noisy  aban- 
donment of  the  street  sounds  in  the  church. 

It  was  not  to  be  denied  that  the  preparations 
were  meagre,  hardly  less  so  than  those  on  the 
original  night  in  the  stable.  Nothing  but  greens 
and  mosses  from  the  swamp,  to  be  got  at  the 
small  expense  of  hiring  a  cart  to  haul  them  in. 
They  garlanded  the  rails  and  table  and  desk  and 
the  huge  font,  which  resembled,  indeed,  a  veritable 
manger.  The  dimly  transparent  windows,  three 
on  each  side,  piercing  the  thick  walls,  looked  with 
their  pendent  wreaths  like  marble  tablets  with 
funereal  cypress  memorials  to  the  dead.  The 
effect  would  not  have  been  festal  were  it  not  for 
the  star.  It  shone  over  the  altar  on  a  shield  of 
green — the  donation  and  triumph  of  Mrs.  Good- 
enough,  the  humiliation  of  Mrs.  Bunnyfeather.  A 
beautiful  star  (frosted  with  some  glistening  pow- 
der), a  white,  radiant,  diamond  star,  a  gleaming 
spirit  star,  a  silvery  effigy  of  the  joyous  living 
ones  in  the  heavens  outside,  shining  on  its  green 
shield  as  if  from  the  cavernous  mouth  of  some 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  211 

subterranean  mystery.  For  it  did  shine  and  gleam 
and  glisten  in  the  dark  damp  church  for  all  the 
world  as  its  celestial  prototype  shone  and  gleam- 
ed and  glistened  in  the  East  above  the  trackless 
desert  to  the  astonished  eyes  of  watching  shep- 
herds. Whether  helped  thereto  by  unseen  celes- 
tial sources  or  by  some  reflected,  refracted  con- 
tribution from  outside  electricity,  or  whether  it 
burned  with  an  effulgence  cleverly  contrived  by 
Mrs.  Goodenough,  it  was  the  star's  own  secret 
where  the  illuminating  power  came  from;  and  the 
eloquence,  too,  with  which  it  spoke  to  the  little 
minister,  speaking  as  it  spoke  nineteen  centuries 
ago,  driving  him  to  his  knees  as  it  drove  the  shep- 
herds to  their  feet,  forcing  him  to  bow  his  head 
and  hide  his  face  in  the  moist,  odoriferous  leaves 
of  the  chancel  rail — that  was  the  star's  secret,  too. 

"  Out  of  the  niglit. 
Into  the  light, 
Star  of  Bethlehem,  lead  !" 

A  band  of  negro  singers  paused  on  the  steps 
outside,  trying  their  voices  together  before  start- 
ing on  their  Saturday  night  round,  stringing  their 
improvised  rhymes  to  suit  the  occasion,  careless- 
ly hitting  or  missing  the  sense  to  satisfy  sound, 
the  accordion  playing  an  interminable  pulsating 
accompaniment. 

"  Out  of  the  soil, 
Out  of  the  toil. 
Star  of  Bethlehem,  lead  !" 


212  THE   CHRISTMAS   STORY 

They  walked  away,  the  weird,  thrilling  falsetto, 
a  ventriloquial  voicing  of  a  distant  woman's 
plaint,  griped  the  heart  like  a  spasm.  Fainter 
and  fainter  they  sang,  keeping  step  down  the 
street,  trailing  the  tune  after  them  long  after  the 
words  were  swallowed  up  in  the  blare  of  horns, 
the  fusillade  of  fire-crackers,  and  the  indistinct 
murmur  of  tumult  that  surged  and  rolled  like  a 
near  tempest. 

"  Let  us  stand  in  here,  Harry  ;  I  can  tell  you 
better.  There's  such  a  din  out  there.  It's  a 
church — a  little  church." 

A  woman  led  the  way  in,  more  at  home,  as 
women  are,  in  churches.  She  caught  the  man  by 
the  hand  and  drew  him  up  the  aisle,  in  the  path 
of  light,  out  of  danger  of  overhearing  or  being 
seen  from  the  street. 

"  It's  a  church,  but  God  knows  we  mean  no 
harm  or  disrespect."  She  had  the  soft  accent  of 
English  that  has  grown  alongside  of  French.  She 
barely  came  up  to  his  shoulder — not  that  she  was 
so  small,  but  he  was  so  tall.  He  had  length, 
breadth,  and  strength  in  him  for  two  men. 

"  Well,  what  is  it,  Janey  ?" 

His  low  voice  was  rich  and  sweet  with  love  and 
premature  concession.  He  must  have  taken  both 
her  hands  in  his  while  he  said  it. 

"  No,  no,  Harry  ;  don't  touch  me.     I — " 

Now  that  the  time  was  come,  she  did  not  know 
how  to  begin  it.    Should  she  begin  it  at  all  ?    How 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  213 

sweet  not  to !  To  go  on  and  on  in  uncertainty, 
but  in  love  ;  to  vacillate  another  fortnight,  and 
then  another,  to  temporize  ! 

"  Is  it  about  to-morrow,  Janey  ?" 

"  Yes,  Harry."  She  was  more  resolute  than 
her  voice.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  I  can't;  indeed  I 
can't.  You  must  give  me  back  my  word  ;  I  can- 
not keep  my  promise." 

"  Janey  !  Janey  !  are  you  in  earnest  ?" 

"  It's  no  use,  Harry ;  I've  tried  and  tried.  I 
thought  I  would  be  able  to  do  my  duty  to  both ; 
but  it's  no  use.  I  made  up  my  mind  to-day,  and 
Christmas  is  as  good  a  time  as  any.  When  I 
saw  everybody  to-day  so  pleasant  and  happy — 
ah,  me  !"  She  stopped  a  moment.  "  It's  been 
before  me  for  some  time.  To  go  away  from  the 
children  now  is  simply  to  give  them  over  to  the 
bad  ;  the  only  chance  for  them  to  be  better  is  for 
me  to  stay  w.ith  them.  I've  waited  and  waited 
with  hope  and  courage  ;  I'm  at  the  end  of  both ; 
and  I  thought  that  Louisa  one  day  would  make 
an  effort ;  but  she  has  less  thought,  less  industry, 
than  ever.  I  thought  that  father  would^  The 
boys,  I  mean — the  boys  are  getting  worse  and 
worse.  Never  a  day  but  I  expect  to  be  called 
home  by  some  dreadful  messenger,  ever  since 
Johnnie  was  run  over  by  the  dummy.  They 
curse  ;  they  smoke  ;  they  run  the  streets  from 
morning  till  night;  they  will  not  go  to  school; 
they  will  not  do  anything  but  hang  around  the 


214  THE   CHRISTMAS   STORY 

corner  groceries  and  theatres.  It  will  be  drink- 
ing next,  I  suppose  ;  and  gambling  and  pistols 
and  knives,  if  not  the  gallows  at  the  end  !" 

"  Why,  Janey,  Janey,  little  woman  !" 

"  No,  Harry.  The  time  has  come  for  me  to  do 
something  about  it.  I  fear  I  have  not  done  my 
duty.  It  rises  before  me  at  night,  when  I  go  to 
bed,  that  it  might  all  have  been  different.  In- 
stead of  working  out,  I  should  have  worked  at 
home.  My  thoughts  go  too  much  to  you ;  they 
should  all  go  to  them.  How  can  I  think  of  leav- 
ing them  forever  !  Who  would  feed  them  ?  Who 
would  look  after  them  ?  What  would  become  of 
them  ?  What  would  become  of  my  peace  of  mind  ?" 

"  Bring  them  all  with  you,  Janey  !  bring  them 
all  with  you !" 

"  No,  Harry ;  you  know  I  cannot ;  I  will  not 
do  that.  Besides,  there's  father.  There's  only 
one  thing  to  do.  I  must  give  up  trying  to  do 
two  things.  God  has  settled  my  life  for  me.  He 
has  put  those  children  in  my  charge,  and  father. 
And,  Harry,  you  must  find  some  one  else  to  be 
your  wife,  some  one  who  can  bring  more  to  you 
than  I — more  heart,  more  time,  more  youth,  more 
beauty,  less  disgrace  and  shame.  If  it  had  been 
different !  Harry,  it  is  harder  on  me  than  on  you  ! 
Harry,  Harry,  you  should  help  me  out !" 

She  would  not  let  him  touch  her,  but  all  the 
time  her  hands  were  holding  fast  to  his  arms,  to 
his  hands,  travelling  over  the  front  of  his  coat. 


OF   A   LITTLE    CHURCH.  215 

He  did  not  help  her  out  at  all,  listening  to  her 
speech  in  dull,  dazed  silence. 

"Instead  of  getting  married  to-morrow  as  I 
promised,  we  must  part ;  and — and  it  is  better  I 
should  never  see  you  again."  Through  the  in- 
coherence of  mind  and  thought  there  was  a  driv- 
ing determination  in  her  mind  which  urged  her 
on  with  desperate  recklessness  of  the  pain  in  her 
heart  and  the  pain  in  his.  "  May  God  keep  and 
bless  you,  Harry !  and  may  some  other  woman 
love  you  as  I  do,  and  be  to  you  what  I  cannot!'' 
She  raised  herself  on  tiptoe,  and  put  her  hands 
up  to  his  face,  her  fingers  sinking  in  his  soft 
bushy  beard.  She  pulled  him  down  to  her,  seek- 
ing his  lips  in  the  dark  with  her  lips,  and  kissed 
him  once,  twice. 

"  Janey  !  Janey  !  If  you  throw  me  off,  you 
throw  me  to  the  devil !" 

"  Harry  !  Harry  !"  she  screamed  ;  "  don't,  don't 
say  that !" 

She  put  her  arms  out  again  towards  him ;  he 
was  gone.  "  Harry  !"  She  ran  out  of  the  church 
after  him,  down  the  steps,  up  the  street ;  he  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  She  crossed  from  one  side 
street  to  the  other,  looking  for  the  tall,  straight, 
burly  figure.  She  heard  a  step  behind  her,  and 
paused ;  it  sounded  familiar ;  she  had  to  press 
her  hands  down  over  her  beating  heart. 

"  My  pretty  one  !" 

She  struck  at  the  proffered  hand  and  leering, 


2l6  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

unknown  face.  "  If  Harry  were  only  there  to 
protect  her !" 

In  her  flight  from  insult  she  instinctively  aban- 
doned her  search,  and  breathless,  trembling,  flew 
homeward. 

Harry  had  only  turned  aside  in  the  vestibule, 
avoiding  her  in  the  dark  as  she  ran  after  him. 
He  came  back  into  the  church,  and  sat  on  a  bench. 

He  knew  so  little  about  women,  though  he 
knew  and  loved  one. 

He  bent  his  head  down  on  his  crossed  arms, 
swaying  his  body  from  side  to  side  under  the 
mastery  of  passion  which  took  the  form  of  un- 
governable rage,  and  swept  all  his  reticence  away. 

"  Curse  it  all ! — all ! — her  father,  her  family — 
throw  me  off ! — like  a  dog  ! — pretend  to  love  me  ! 
Lies  !  lies  !  lies  !     I'll  make  her  repent  !     I'll — " 

A  light  touch  fell  on  his  shoulder.  It  was  not 
Janey,  although  it  was  a  figure  not  any  larger,  a 
voice  fully  as  soft  and  tender. 

"  Harry,"  said  the  minister — he  knew  no  other 
name  to  call  him  by — "  I  heard  it  all,  and — " 

"  I  don't  care  who  heard  it !  I  don't  care  if 
the  whole  city  heard  it,  from  Carrollton  to  the 
Barracks !" 

"  Hush  !  you  have  forgotten  she  told  you  this 
was  a  church." 

"I'll  leave  it.  What  did  she  bring  me  here 
for  ?     I'll  get  out  of  it.     I'll  go  on  the  street." 

"Will  you  go  after  her  ?" 


OF    A    LITTLE    CHURCH.  21? 

"  I  go  after  her  ?  I  speak  to  her  ?  May  God — 
I'll  cut  her  on  the  street !  I  never  want  to  lay 
eyes  on  her  again  !  I'll  disgrace  her  !  I'll  drink, 
I'll—" 

He  could  think  of  nothing  more  certain  to  hurt 
her  than  injury  to  himself. 

"  I'll  go  to  the  devil !  Oh,  she'll  regret  it ! 
She'll  repent  it !" 

"Why  should  she  do  it?" 

"Why!  why!  I  know  why.  They've  bedeviled 
her  and  pestered  her  at  home  till  she's  'most  crazy. 
They've  worked  her  till  she's  got  no  heart,  body, 
nor  soul  left.  They've  dragged  her  down  and 
down  till  her  pride  is  gone,  and  she's  ashamed 
even  of  me.  Some  of  the  brats  have  done  some- 
thing— the  devil  himself  isn't  up  to  more  rascal- 
ity than  they — or  her  old  daddy  has  gone  on  an- 
other spree,  been  locked  up,  or  kept  her  up  all 
night  abusing  her.  Her  wages  are  used  up,  and 
this  Christmas  Eve,  when  all  the  world  is  a-pleas- 
uring  and  frolicking,  she  must  go  home  and  sew 
till  daylight  to  buy  bread  and  meat  for  them. 
It's — it's — "  His  temper  rose  with  a  sudden 
bound.  "  Is't  a  hell,  this  world?  —  the  whole 
world?" 

The  pews  shook  under  the  stroke  of  his  clinched 
iist. 

"You  love  her,  then?"  Herbert  alone  knew 
whether  it  were  a  question  or  a  logical  conclusion 
in  his  own  mind. 


2l8  THE    CHRISTMAS    STORY 

"Love  her?  I  swear  to  you,  sir,  as  God  Al- 
mighty hears  me,  I  never  loved  any  woman  on 
earth  but  her,  and  she  knows  it.  I  never  shall 
love  any  other  woman.  I  ain't  given  to  talking 
about  it.  I  couldn't  even  tell  her.  There's  no 
one  knows  it  or  understands  it  but  myself.  If  I 
were  to  think  of  it,  sir,  I  wouldn't  work  another 
lick.  She  isn't  pretty,  and  she  doesn't  look 
young  any  more,  and  she's  worked  to  a  shadow ; 
but  God  knows,  if  I  was  on  my  death-bed,  and 
life  would  be  given  me  to  marry  the  prettiest  girl 
in  the  world  and  not  her,  I'd  turn  my  face  to  the 
wall  and  die.     I  want  her  !     I  want  her!" 

His  face  went  again  into  his  arms. 

"  And  to  think  she  could  throw  me  off  like  a 
dog !  I  might  just  as  well  go>  and  jump  into  the 
river.  It's  the  end  of  it  all.  It  is  not  the  look 
that  is  in  her,  sir."  He  was  up  again  and  talking. 
"  It  is  the  look  about  her.  It's  the  pale  face  and 
the  sad  eyes;  it's  the  poor,  thin,  tired  little  body 
I  want  to  ease.  It's  her  little  slim  feet  I  want  to 
hold  tight  and  still  in  my  one  hand.  It's  her 
little  mite  of  hands  I  want  to  give  a  holiday  to." 
He  could  feel  her  little  hands  passing  over  his 
face,  her  fingers  in  his  beard;  the  tears  gushed 
in  his  eyes.  "  I  wish  I  was  dead  and  buried  and 
out  of  it  all." 

"  It  would  be  different,"  he  continued,  after  a 
silence — the  minister  was  so  motionless  at  his 
side  it  was  the  same  as  talking  to  himself — "It 


OF    A    LITTLE    CHURCH.  219 

would  be  different  if  I  thought  she  was  going  to 
be  happy,  or  comfortable,  or  anything  like;  but 
my  mules — I  drive  a  float,  sir — have  a  better  time 
than  her.  From  morning  till  night  she's  going 
on  not  enough  fodder  to  keep  a  bird,  and  not  as 
much  ease  and  peace  as  a  penitentiary  convict. 
Her  father's  a  sot,  that's  all.  They  used  to  be 
very  respectable  and  high-minded  before  he  took 
to  drinking.  He  worked  in  a  cotton-press.  There 
seems  to  be  no  end  to  his  sinking  now;  it  would 
be  a  God's  mercy  if  he  would  drown  in  a  gutter, 
or  be  knocked  over  by  some  of  his  drunken 
gang.  I  wonder  she  don't  take  to  drink,  too !  If 
I  were  a  woman  with  as  little  chance  as  her  I 
would.  But  no,  she'll  work  and  work  and  kill  her- 
self— and  that  will  be  the  end  of  it  all.  They've 
been  at  her  again ;  they've  had  a  scene ;  I  could 
see  she'd  been  crying.  She  doesn't  know  what 
to  do,  so  she  flings  me  over,  the  only  friend  she's 
got  in  God's  wide  world.  And  that  ain't  going 
to  make  it  easier,  as  she  thinks.  It  will  kill  her. 
Mule  nature  couldn't  stand  it,  let  alone  woman 
nature. 

"  I'd  fixed  it  all.  We  Avere  to  go  off  somewhere 
to-morrow  and  get  married  without  any  one  know- 
ing it.  I  was  afraid  they'd  get  at  her — the  chil- 
dren. I've  told  her  over  and  over  again  I'd  take 
care  of  the  children  like — like  children  of  my 
own,"  He  stammered,  for  the  comparison  with 
him  had  ceased  to  be  conventional.    "  Good  for 


220  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

nothing  as  the  children  are,  she  loves  'em  as  if 
she  were  their  mother,  and  his  own  wife  wasn't 
as  patient  with  him  as  she  is  with  that  whiskey 
barrel  of  a  father  of  hers.  I  'ain't  got  any  use 
for  him,  and  she  can't  help  seeing  it ;  that's 
what  hurts  her.  She  ought  to  have  had  the 
best  and  proudest  father  in  this  city,  that's  a 
fact ;  and  God  ought  to  have  done  better  by 
her. 

"  Great  Scott  !  to  go  around  all  day  Christmas 
Vv'ith  the  feeling  in  my  heart  that  Janey  was  my 
legally  married  wife  !  My  sweet,  sad,  tired,  dainty 
bit  of  a  Janey !  And  no  one  know  it — not  a  soul 
—  until  evening  came  and  time  to  go  home. 
'Janey,  my  wife,  come  home!'  Paradise  would 
have  been  a  fool  to  this  earth  then;  and  if  any 
man  would  have  dared  say  it  wasn't  a  merry 
Christmas,  I'd  have  knocked  him  down.  Yes, 
sir,  I  would.  It's  all  ready  and  waiting  for  her — 
my  little  shanty.  I  haven't  slept  in  my  room 
since  she  promised  me ;  I  was  afraid  of  soiling  or 
mussing  something.  I've  slept  out  in  the  stables 
with  the  mules.  I  own  two  teams,  sir ;  six  of  the 
finest  mules  in  the  city,  and  have  paid  for  them 
too,  every  cent.  I'll  never  sleep  in  that  room 
again.  I'll  eat  and  drink  and  sleep  with  the 
mules  the  rest  of  my  life;  and  this  is  the  last  bit 
of  paper  that  will  ever  carry  the  name  of  Harry 
Farren  to  marry  any  woman  !" 

He  pulled  the  license  out  of  his  pocket,  and 


OF    A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  221 

would  have  torn  it,  but  Herbert  took  it  out  of  his 

hand. 

"  Out  of  the  sin, 
Out  of  the  din, 
Babe  of  Bethlehem,  lead  !" 

The  singers,  passing  again,  had  increased  their 
following.  A  battalion's  tread  resounded  on  the 
pavement.  The  rhymes  taken  up  from  the  front 
were  repeated  down  the  line,  falling  off  with  the 
squeaking  mimicry  of  gamins'  voices,  out  of  hear- 
ing and  jurisdiction  of  the  accordion. 

"...  You  want  to  go  to  the  devil  this  night  ? 
The  devil,  no  doubt,  will  give  you  opportunities 
enough,"  began  the  minister. 

"  Out  of  the  dust, 

Out  of  the  lust, 

Babe  of  Bethlehem,  lead  !" 

A  shout  hailed  the  locally  and  timely  success- 
ful hit  of  the  couplet,  and  the  contribution  of  a 
stentorian  basso  was  sung  with  continued  and 
deafening  satisfaction. 

Harry,  nevertheless,  could  hear  what  the  min- 
ister said,  faint  and  low  as  the  tones  were.  If  it 
had  been  of  a  Sunday  or  daylight,  and  from  pulpit 
to  congregation,  he  might  have  recognized  it  as  a 
sermon;  the  disguise  now,  by  time  and  circum- 
stances, was  so  complete  that  at  the  end  of  it  he 
stepped  into  the  street  unconscious  that  he  had 
been  quietly  and  obediently  listening  to  one. 


222  THE   CHRISTMAS   STORY 

However  deficient  in  morality,  even  according 
to  the  naturally  lenient  statement  of  their  eldest 
sister,  the  little  Wiggenses  were  not  to  any  per- 
ceptible degree  wanting  in  intelligence  where 
their  own  interests  were  concerned.  They  did 
not  expect  Santa  Claus,  like  the  sun,  to  smile  on 
the  just  and  unjust  alike;  indeed,  their  own  past 
Christmas-treeless  experience  gave  the  lie  to  such 
an  expectation,  but  they  did  hope  this  year  to 
manage,  or,  as  they  put  it,  "get  ahead  of  him." 
As  he  only  came  once  a  year  and  stayed  but  a 
short  while,  they  determined  to  test  their  strength 
and  his  perspicacity  by  a  short,  sharp  trial  of 
goodness.  With  handsome  munificence,  they  can- 
celled from  their  minds  all  remembrance  or  even 
knowledge  of  past  naughtinesses,  calculating  that 
by  conduct  superlatively  exemplary  for  one  night 
and  day  they  would  refute  for  once,  if  not  for  all, 
the  calumny  of  the  neighbors,  who  persisted  that 
the  "  Wiggenses  didn't  know  what  good  was," 
and  render  themselves  worthy  candidates  for 
those  largesses  which  they  understood  fell  only 
to  the  obedient  and  pious.  Their  devices  to  this 
end  were  varied  and  endless. 

Johnnie  —  called  "Tipple" — whose  foot  had 
been  amputated  by  the  dummy,  that  special  re- 
warder  of  bad  boys,  took  the  initiative.  He 
begged,  entreated,  commanded,  that  he  should 
be  tied  in  bed,  tied  with  a  borrowed  clothes-line, 
and  so  restrained  from  hopping  around  on  the 


OF   A   LITTLE    CHURCH.  223 

floor  on  his  one  foot,  to  the  killing  amusement  of 
his  sister  and  six  brothers,  and  the  exasperation 
of  the  unfortunate  young  practitioner  who  at- 
tended him — an  individual  who  had  far  more  char- 
ity than  brains.  Johnnie  also  requested  and  in- 
structed them  to  put  a  head  on  him  at  the  first 
indication  of  gab  on  his  part  to  the  old  stick-in- 
the-mud  doctor,  and  called  them  all  to  witness 
that  they  might  depose  when  the  time  came  that 
since  that  morning  he  had  not  loosened  the  band- 
ages to  see,  himself,  how  the  stump  was  getting  on, 
or  to  show  them,  though  he  assured  them  they 
might  beg  him  on  their  knees  to  do  it.  And 
the  brothers  and  sisters  were  not  to  be  outdone, 
though  it  went  hard  with  them,  for  every  day 
the  doctor's  visit  was  funnier  in  virtue  of  new 
original  impromptu  variations.  Instead  of  hid- 
ing behind  doors  to  squeak  and  scratch  and 
whisper  "  Rats  !"  when  the  young  man  made  his 
appearance,  asking  him,  when  he  went,  about  his 
"  ma,"  requesting  a  loan  of  five  dollars,  or  a  ci- 
gar for  a  light,  pinning  fragments  of  newspaper 
to  his  coat-tails,  and  calling  "Extra!"  behind  him 
down  the  street,  or  by  opposition  show  and  vari- 
ety dancing  behind  his  back  frustrate  his  at- 
tempts to  gain  Johnnie's  attention — instead  of 
this  daily  performance,  which,  as  noted,  was  nev- 
er more  delightful,  they  wished  the  doctor  "good- 
morning  "  with  such  decorous  politeness  of  tone 
and  manner,  and  were  so  successful  in  their  hy- 


224  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

pocrisy  generally,  that  the  poor  young  fellow, 
having  the  infection  of  the  day  upon  him,  went 
directly  from  the  house  to  a  fruit-stand,  and  bought 
all  the  oranges,  apples,  and  bananas  he  could  not 
afford,  ordering  them  to  be  delivered  in  sure  se- 
crecy and  mystery  the  next  morning,  that  Santa 
Claus,  the  scape-goat  of  other  people's  generosity, 
should  get  the  merit  of  it.  And  more  recklessly 
still,  he  opened  a  credit,  on  what  assets  he  alone 
knew,  and  bought  a  crutch,  which  was  also  to  be 
delivered  anonymously  to  Johnnie.  He  was  a 
country  lad,  and  had  not  quite  learned  city  ways 
yet. 

Time  never  fell  so  heavy  on  the  hands  of  the 
Wiggenses  before  ;  they  found  good  days  much 
harder  to  fill  than  naughty  ones  ;  in  fact,  there 
was  no  comparison  between  the  ease  of  finding 
occupation  for  the  one  and  for  the  other.  The 
short  and  merry  life  of  the  wicked  is  not  merely 
a  figurative  expression. 

Janey's  little  cupboard  of  a  room  was  always 
securely  locked  against  them,  but  their  own  apart- 
ment offered  as  fair  a  field  for  reform  as  for 
depredation.  They  swept  and  dusted  it,  not 
once,  but  a  score  of  times,  until  the  borrowed 
broom  was  recalled  and  a  renewal  of  the  loan 
peremptorily  refused.  They  washed  their  faces 
and  combed  their  hair  for  months  in  advance. 
They  tied  and  retied  Johnnie  in  his  bed,  each 
one  separately,  according  to  some  new  Individ- 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  225 

ual  idea  of  comfort  and  security,  in  such  high 
good-humor  all  the  time,  laughing  and  shouting 
with  such  boisterous  hilarity,  that  they  made 
themselves,  if  possible,  more  annoying  than  ever 
to  the  neighborhood,  until,  long  as  the  day  was, 
it  began  undeniably  to  draw  to  a  close.  Louisa, 
the  eldest  of  this  set  of  Wiggenses  (Janey  be- 
longed to  a  long -forgotten  first  wife),  had  be- 
thought herself  at  the  last  moment  of  washing 
her  frock.  It  was  done  standing,  and  going  at 
the  dirty  spots  singly  all  around  the  skirt ;  and 
now,  being  energetic  in  any  undertaking,  the 
basin  being  handy,  with  water  and  soap,  she  had 
just  completed  the  same  satisfactory  task  for  her 
hair.  She  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room  shaking 
her  long,  dripping  red  locks  over  the  floor,  for- 
getting her  object  in  fascination  of  the  elegant 
variegated  pattern  which,  with  a  little  care,  she 
could  design  all  over  the  dusty  surface.  They 
had  had  an  idea  of  scrubbing  the  floor  at  one 
time,  but  now  rejoiced  over  the  abandonment 
of  it. 

"  Make  it  go  round  and  round  like  shells,  sis," 
suggested  Bobbie,  in  envious  admiration. 

"  No.  I  tell  you,  diamonds,  diamonds  is  the 
prettiest.  It's  too  dry ;  go  get  some  more  water 
on  it." 

"  Pshaw  !  now  it's  too  wet." 

"  You  ought  to  hire  yourself  out  for  a  waterin'- 
can,  sis." 


226  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

**  Or  a  whitewash  brush." 

"A  yellow-wash  brush  you  mean."  Johnnie 
always  was  the  wittiest  of  all. 

"  It  must  feel  funny  to  have  all  that  stuff  on 
your  head." 

"  Suppose  a  horse  had  his  tail  tied  on  his  head  ?" 

"  Let's  cut  it  off,  sis — eh  ?  Just  to  see  how  you 
look  without  it." 

"  Geewhillikins  !  I  could  laugh  till  I  bust. 
Janey  she  thinks  I'm  smoking  cigar  stumps  round 
by  the  Academy,  just  'cause  she  told  me  particu- 
lar not  to." 

Bobbie  swaggered  up  and  down,  smoking  an 
imaginative  cigar  stump,  his  hands  under  an  im- 
aginary coat-tail. 

"  I  reckon  she's  traipsing  round  now,  looking 
for  me  everywhere."  Louisa  swung  and  switched 
her  hair  superciliously.  "  She  seems  to  think  I 
can't  never  stay  at  home." 

"  She'll  just  keel  over  when  she  sees  me  a-lyin' 
here  all  tied  up,"  said  Johnnie,  pulling  himself 
together  to  make  his  bonds  tighter,  glancing  down 
at  the  immaculate  bandages  over  his  ankle. 

"  Tell  us  how  it  felt  when  it  was  a-coming  off, 
Johnnie." 

"Oh,  tell  us  once  more." 

"  It  felt  a — "  prompted  Louisa. 

"  Pshaw  !  don't  be  mean." 

"  It  felt  a — "  continued  Louisa. 

"  You  hush  up ;   you  don't  know.     Was  you 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  227 

there,  now  ?  Say,  was  you  there  ?"  And  Johnnie 
felt  obliged  to  save  his  anecdote  by  telling  it  again 
for  the  thousandth  time  since  the  accident.  The 
rest  clustered  around  the  bed  not  to  lose  the  least 
part  of  word  or  expression. 

"  It  felt  a  scrinchin'  " — twisting  his  hands  as  if 
wringing  something  off — "and  a  scranchin' " — 
twisting  his  face  now — "  and  a  scroonchin',  and  a 
— hell !"  with  that  side-splitting  wink  of  his  left 
eye  at  them. 

"I  'ain't  done  nuffin  all  day."  Baby,  the 
youngest,  four  years  old,  who  usually  did  the  gut- 
ter business,  had  patiently  waited  to  enter  his 
claim. 

When  Janey  did  come  home  and  opened  the 
door  in  her  habitual  despairing  way,  they  must, 
unless  they  were  altogether  insatiable,  have  been 
satisfied  with  her  surprise.  At  the  moment,  they 
were  hopping  over  the  floor  to  show  the  delighted 
Johnnie  how  he  would  have  to  walk  in  future;  each 
one  holding  the  shoe  off  the  naked  upheld  foot. 

"  Hurrah,  Janey !     Here  we  are  !" 

"  Every  single  one  of  us,  Janey." 

"  We  haven't  been  out  all  day,  Janey." 

"And  we've  been  being  good,  Janey." 

"  Look  at  me,  Janey  !" 

"Look — look  at  Johnnie,  Janey  !" 

"  Don't  you  see,  Janey  ?" 

"  I  tied  him,  Janey." 

"  So  did  I !" 


228  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

"And  me,  too  !" 

"  But  I  told  'em  to  do  it.  Didn't  I  ?  Didn't 
I,  now  ?"  screamed  Johnnie,  over  them  all. 

"  I  'ain't  done  nuffin  all  day  long,  Janey," 
claimed  the  baby  again,  looking  so  unnatural 
with  his  clean  face  that  it  is  no  wonder  Janey 
kissed  him  over  and  over  again  for  a  dear  little 
fellow. 

"  See,  we  are  going  to  hang  'em  up,  Jane}'," 
showing  the  shoes. 

"  Santa  Claus  has  got  to  give  us  something 
this  time,  sure  !" 

"  We  'ain't  got  stockings,  but  shoes  will  do." 

"And  we  are  going  right  to  bed,  so  as  Santa 
Claus  can  come  as  soon  as  he  likes." 

"And  right  to  sleep." 

"  Here's  Tipple's  shoe.  He  'ain't  got  but  one. 
Had  to  let  the  old  car  mash  off  the  tother  one." 

"  In  course  !  in  course  !"  Tipple  would  be 
sarcastic.  "  It  was  my  fault.  I  ought  to  have 
took  off  my  hat,  and  made  a  low  bow  to  the  dum- 
my, and  axed  the  cars  please  to  stop  till  I  took 
off  my  shoe,  or  tell  'em  to  call  round  again,  or  to 
come  in  summer  when  I  was  barefooted." 

"  I  hope  Santa  Claus  will  bring  me  a  red  para- 
sol," and  Louisa  sidled  and  arched  as  she  imag- 
ined the  fortunate  possessors  of  these  luxuries  to 
do  in  their  promenades  through  the  streets. 

They  were  indeed  that  evening  as  good  and 
affectionate  children  as  were   to  be  found  any- 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  229 

where  among  all  the  miraculously  good  and  affec- 
tionate children  of  Christmas  Eve.  They  kept 
their  word  about  going  to  bed,  and  what  was 
more  surprising,  about  going  to  sleep,  leaving 
Janey  to  novel  evening  hours,  undisturbed  by 
care  or  anxiety  about  them,  dnd  scoring  a  point 
in  their  own  favor  which  no  Santa  Claus  could 
by  any  possibility  ignore. 

Janey  lighted  her  lamp  and  got  out  her  sewing 
that  she  might  think,  for  one  process  with  her  had 
become  inseparable  from  the  other.  She  had 
been  a  precocious  adept  in  both,  and  since  Lou- 
isa's age  had  been  hemming,  running,  stitching, 
basting,  and  button-holeing  year  after  year,  or 
year  on  year,  first  in  one,  then  in  another,  dress- 
maker's room,  carrying  her  thought  around  with 
her  needle-book,  adding  chapter  to  chapter,  pe- 
riod to  period,  from  childhood  to  Avomanhood, 
finishing  up  one  job  of  thinking  to  open  another, 
as  if  she  were  paid  by  the  day  for  it  also. 

Going  through  heavy  stuffs  for  the  winter,  light 
ones  for  spring,  thin  for  summer,  light  for  au- 
tumn ;  as  the  months  slipped  by,  she  only  knew 
the  seasons,  in  the  close  room,  by  the  dry-goods 
she  sewed.  Going  into  mourning  and  out  of 
mourning,  changing,  twisting,  turning,  fashioning 
old  garments  to  look  like  new,  and  new  ones  to 
appear  more  than  their  price,  receiving  constantly 
new  orders  about  placing  the  whalebones,  ribbons, 
buttons,  laces,  hooks  and  eyes,  cutting  out  one  year 


230  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

this  way,  another  year  that,  draping  and  undraping, 
life  had  outwardly  become  one  long  monotonous 
servitude  to  change.  If  she  had  had  imagination, 
she  would  have  said  that  she  was  not  a  woman — 
her  woman  charms  drying  up  unused  upon  her 
— but  some  devil's  imp  or  gnome,  one  of  a  vast 
league,  in  some  stolen  woman's  body,  sent  from 
some  devil's  little  hell  of  fashion  on  a  special 
mission  of  corruption  against  womankind ;  to 
aid,  abet,  encourage,  assert,  and  produce  dissen- 
sion between  the  mind  and  body ;  to  tempt  into 
perils  of  debt  and  perils  of  morality;  to  delude 
with  beauty  and  reward  with  ugliness;  to  uncover 
in  pretending  to  cover ;  to  disclose  in  pretending 
to  hide;  to  draw  the  laces  tighter  and  tighter, 
cut  the  bodice  lower  and  lower,  the  sleeve  higher 
and  higher,  the  skirts  narrower  and  narrower ;  to 
push  a  suggestion  to  a  suspicion,  a  suspicion  to 
a  conviction  of  impropriety ;  to  efface  standards  ; 
to  inure  to  exposure ;  to  push  flesh  and  blood 
forward  into  ever  greater  evidence,  and  the  soul 
backward  into  ever  greater  discredit. 

But  such  were  not  Janey's  thoughts,  although 
a  morbid  companion  at  the  work-table  gave  utter- 
ance to  similar  ones.  Her  thoughts  wandered  in 
other  directions.  They  were  off  and  away  at  the 
first  stitch  for  beautiful  gardens,  or  for  sandy 
shores  rippled  by  the  waters  of  a  blue  lake,  under 
golden  skies,  listening  to  sweet  music,  locating 
the  pearly  streets  of  heaven.     Or  they  spent  mill- 


OF    A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  231 

ions  of  money  in  schemes  of  charity,  or  went  on 
missions  to  unfortunates  ;  or,  coming  home,  they 
cleaned,  repaired,  and  beautified  the  poverty  and 
disgrace-stricken  domicile ;  they  educated  Louisa 
into  a  respectable  young  woman  ;  they  made  the 
boys  sober,  honest,  industrious  laborers  ;  keeping 
Dick  from  gambling,  Bobbie  from  smoking,  and 
Tippie  from  catching  on  behind  the  cars ;  they 
sent  the  baby  to  a  free  Kindergarten,  and  re- 
formed— God  help  her  ! — her  old  rascally  father, 
bringing  him  from  the  grog-shop  to  sit  at  home 
of  evenings,  refining  from  his  face  the  blotches 
and  marks  that  incrusted  the  features,  and  hid 
them  from  what  they  were  in  her  childish  recol- 
lections of  him.  There  was  to  be  a  table  with  a 
lamp  on  it ;  around  it  they  all  were  to  sit,  she 
with  her  sewing,  the  others  with  newspapers  and 
books.  She  could  see  the  very  pattern  of  the 
table-cover.  God  help  her  again,  and  all  women 
who  toil  on  through  life  after  t'g/ii's /a fu us  hope,  to 
be  led  into  disappointment  and  a  bog ! 

At  the  end  of  all  the  planning,  cleaning,  re- 
forming, at  some  distant  point  in  a  long  vista,  her 
thoughts,  and  her  needle  too  (for  it  was  distinctly 
officious  in  the  process),  would  marry  her  to 
Harry.  And  then  the  repose,  the  caresses,  the 
leaning  on  a  strong  arm,  the  reclining  against 
a  strong  breast !  And  now,  God  bless  those 
thoughts  which  come  to  lonely  women,  and  give 
them  a  taste  of  the  love  they  are  never  to  know, 


232  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

and  provide  them  with  the  mate,  family,  and  home 
which  their  nature  craves,  but  their  destiny  denies ! 

She  had  much  to  think  about  to-night,  but  her 
needle  threaded  only  stitches  together.  She  was 
to  start  anew  in  life  to-morrow;  she  had  taken 
the  first  step  already ;  but  her  feet  were  already 
tired  and  apathetic.  The  children  all  slept  in 
their  little  beds,  quiet  and  safe.  Perhaps  if  she 
had  had  to  hunt  them  up,  as  usual,  to  scold  and 
punish  them,  if  they  had  been  unkind,  impudent, 
ungrateful,  as  usual !  She  shed  tears  over  the 
bitter  thoughts  that  had  come  to  her  that  day 
about  them,  the  bitter  feelings  which  had  lashed 
her  on  to  her  own  immolation.  The  revulsion 
which  their  change  of  conduct  had  caused  in  the 
judgment  of  the  poor  young  physician  was  as 
nothing  to  that  which  the  young  Wiggenses  caused 
in  the  heart  of  their  sister,  simply  by  coming  in 
early  and  going  to  bed  quietly. 

Hark  !  how  happy  the  people  were  outside  ! 
She  threw  down  her  work,  opened  the  window, 
and  leaned  out.  Tramping  by,  with  bundles  un- 
der their  arms,  men  and  women  talked  and  laugh- 
ed loudly,  full  of  Christmas  plans  and  presents. 
The  market  stores  were  all  ablaze  with  light. 
She  could  hear  fireworks  all  over  the  city ;  an 
occasional  rocket  burst  in  her  horizon,  throwing 
new  constellations  over  the  thickly-starred  heav- 
ens. She  knew  they  came  from  the  aristocratic 
mansions  up-town,  sent  up  by  servants  hidden  in 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  233 

flower-gardens  to  amuse  the  silk  and  lace  clad  la- 
dies in  the  galleries.  Bands  of  music  crossed  each 
other  at  street-angles ;  great  fire-crackers  like  pis- 
tols were  shot  off  like  minute-guns  over  a  victory, 
startling  and  frightening  her  every  time.  What 
joy  and  merriment  there  could  be  in  the  world, 
and  what  sorrow  and  heaviness  of  heart  !  Why 
was  it  that  only  the  latter  portion  had  come  to 
her  ?  The  children  thought  it  was  their  naughti- 
ness had  prevented  Santa  Claus  coming  to  them  ; 
what  would  they  say  to-morrow  when  their  good- 
ness would  be  found  unrewarded  ? 

"  Out  of  the  chase, 
Out  of  the  race, 
Man  of  Bethlehem,  lead  !" 

How  the  voices  hurt !  the  quivering,  drear,  ne- 
gro voices,  changing  every  melody  into  a  dirge, 
funereal  in  mind  as  in  skin. 

"  Oiit  of  the  tears. 
Out  of  the  fears, 
j\lan  of  Bethlehem,  lead  !" 

How  often  at  night  they  had  passed  through 
her  dreams,  these  street  minstrels,  waking  her 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she  had  loved  them 
■  for  their  musical  gratuity,  and  gone  to  sleep 
again  singing  the  tune  over  to  herself !  God  may 
have  afflicted  them,  but  He  had  given  them  the 
expression  and  alleviation  of  music. 


234  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

"  Eleven  o'clock  !  They  would  have  passed 
this  evening  together,  Harry  and  she,  the  last 
evening  of  their  separate  lives,  hand  in  hand, 
and —  No  ;  when  they  were  together,  it  was  not 
all  endearment  and  embrace ;  that  was  only  in 
her  thoughts.  Why  should  she  think  that  which 
had  never  happened,  never  could  happen  ?  Why 
now  did  she  feel  his  lips  upon  hers  ?"  She  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  stifled  a  moan  on  her 
lips.     Why  should  her  heart  involuntarily  moan  ? 

What  carousing  was  going  on  at  the  corner,  in 
the  groggery  where  her  father  was .-'  They  had 
better  be  at  home,  these  men.  Where  were  their 
women  ?  Leaning  out  of  windows,  watching,  sleep- 
less, unhappy?  Those  fire-crackers,  how  could 
the  police  permit  them  ?  Murder  could  be  done 
by  pistols  under  cover  of  their  noise.  Harry  had 
looked  forward  to  to-morrow — her  great,  burly, 
high-tempered  Harry !  He  was  dull  about  some 
things,  but  she  loved  him  all  the  better  for  it. 
"God  knows  I  thought  it  was  my  duty!"  She 
said  the  words  aloud,  and  started  at  the  sound  of 
talking  to  herself.  A  black  cloud  had  been  gath- 
ering over  her  for  a  week  ;  perhaps  she  was  not 
well,  perhaps  she  had  worked  too  hard,  and,  and 
— if  she  had  waited !  Would  Harry  go  to  the 
devil  as  he  said  ?  Wasn't  it  always  a  woman's 
fault  Avhen  a  man  went  to  the  devil  ?  She  had 
meant  to  save  her  little  brothers — from  what  ? 
What  immediate  danger  threatened  them  ?   Harry 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  235 

had  no  sister,  no  family  to  look  after  him — Harry, 
who  had  given  her  only  the  constant  love-tokens 
of  an  unswerving  devotion.  Her  heart  was  get- 
ting beyond  her  control ;  bounding,  leaping,  de- 
manding, crying,  craving  —  Harry  !  Harry  !  no 
brother,  no  sister,  no  father  —  only  Harry,  her 
promised  husband  !  She  was  so  weak  and  tired, 
so  helpless  against  this  sudden  heart  fury.  "Would 
he  go  straight  home — ah  me  ! — and  sit  in  the  dark 
thinking  hard  things  of  me ;  or  would  he  go  to  a 
saloon  too,  and  make  an  all  night  of  it  ?"  She 
had  once  taken  his  pistol  from  him,  and  made 
him  promise  never  to  wear  it  again.  Would  he 
love  again  and  get  married?  There  were  few 
women  who  would  not  be  glad  of  him  for  a  hus- 
band, and  she  had  thrown  him  off — for  what  ? 
To  think  that  her  life  would  go  on  the  better 
without  him  !  And  the  children,  why  should  he 
not  have  helped  to  train  them,  her  husband,  their 
brother — without  him  no  future,  no — 

That  was  a  pistol  this  time  !  again,  again,  and 
again  !  Screams,  oaths,  a  rushing  crowd ;  a  cry 
of  murder  !  "Harry!  Harry!"  She  rushed  from 
the  room  to  the  street.  She  would  pierce  the 
crowd ;  she  would  tear  her  way  through ;  if  he 
were  there  she  would  drag  him  out ;  if  he  were 
shot,  it  was  she  had  disarmed  him.  There  were 
assassins  and  drunkards  at  that  corner. 

*' Janey,  Janey,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Where  are 
you  going  }     Janey  !" 


236  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

Harry's  arms  held  her ;  Harry's  voice  was  in 
her  ears.  He  had  waited,  as  he  promised  tire 
parson — waited  until  midnight,  his  last  vigil  on 
the  little  box  steps  in  front  of  her  house.  The 
bells  were  just  going  to  ring  now. 

"  Janey  !  little  woman  !  little  wife  !" 

For  she  clung  to  him  so,'  she  cried  so  over  him, 
she  kissed  his  face,  his  eyes,  his  beard,  his  hands 
— his  hard,  heavy,  mule-driving  hands. 

"  Harry,  Harry,  Harry,  darling  !" 

That  was  the  way  she  always  called  him  to 
herself,  but  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  heard 
her. 

"  Harry,  I'm  all  wrong;  Harry,  I  can't — I  can't 
live  without  you." 

What  a  maddening  jubilation  !  what  a  peal  the 
bells  were  ringing  about  them  !  as  if  all  true,  hap- 
py, reunited  lovers  in  the  world  were  pulling  at 
the  ropes'  ends. 

Herbert  remained  alone  in  the  church  to  the 
meditations,  for  which  eighteen  centuries  have 
furnished  the  soil,  and  which,  even  in  a  Christmas 
story,  perhaps  cannot  with  discretion  be  revealed. 
Whether  he  wandered  up  and  down  the  narrow 
aisles,  or  whether  he  stood  in  the  dark,  with  his 
head  against  the  walls,  staring  blankly  before 
him,  or  v;hether  he  sat  in  a  pew,  his  face  in  his 
hands,  or  looking  up  at  the  cheap  radiant  star 
over  the  altar  ;  whether  he  fell  on  his  knees  be- 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  237 

fore  the  altar,  murmuring  inarticulate  words  of 
prayer,  or  shedding  tears  on  the  green  leaves,  or 
cried  "  Avaunt !"  to  lurking  Satans,  or  shut  his 
lips  to  keep  back  the  rising  tumult  in  his  heart, 
it  was  intended  for  none  but  the  eye  of  Him  whom 
the  star  typified. 

Oh,  the  sadness  that  comes  on  Christmas  Eve ! 
All  the  noise  and  merriment  is  but  to  neutralize 
it.  Never  does  time  appear  to  move  so  fast,  and 
good  resolutions  so  slow ;  never  does  childhood 
appear  so  beautiful,  or  so  remote  ;  never  does  in- 
nocence appear  more  heavenly,  or  more  impossi- 
ble ;  never  do  longings  for  the  dead  and  gone  so 
wring  and  torture  the  heart :  never  does  the  hard 
reality  of  the  present  so  clash  with  the  anticipa- 
tions of  what  it  was  to  be — as  when,  hour  after 
hour,  Christmas  Eve  passes,  and,  hour  after  hour, 
Christmas  approaches.  Herbert  struggled  to 
make  the  present  one  yield  some  mitigations  of 
future  ones ;  some  recollection  which  would  stand 
out  in  Christmas  Eves  to  come,  and  challenge  the 
black  spectre  of  despondency  that  glides  in  mid- 
night hours  to  whisper  in  the  ear  of  the  consci- 
entious, "  Thou  hast  failed."  And  if  any  prayer 
addressed  at  such  a  moment  might  be  recorded 
by  profane  hands,  it  was  the  prayer  that  rose 
from  his  heart  to  that  effect. 

And  he  felt  that  the  answer  would  come  to  him, 
not  in  the  church,  but  out  there  in  the  multitude, 
surging  and  rolling  out  noise,  leaving  now  and 


238  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

then  a  rocket  here,  a  voice  there,  cast  up  solitary 
and  shrill  on  the  air. 

Out  there  were  hands  to  be  clasped,  hearts  to 
be  raised ;  out  there  sympathy,  companionship, 
love  ;  out  there  a  whole  population  for  a  desolate, 
loving  heart.  Out  there,  where  the  barefooted 
vision  walked,  were  sisters  and  brothers  at  this 
moment  waiting  for  them  both  —  sisters  and 
brothers  in  spite  of  religious,  political,  financial, 
racial  separations. 

"  Out  of  the  tomb, 
Out  of  the  gloom, 
Christ  of  Bethlehem,  lead  !" 

The  accordion  was  tired  and  tripping,  the 
voices  thin  and  irregular ;  both  were  on  their  last 

round. 

"  Up,  up  above, 
To  Heaven  and  Love, 
Christ  of  Bethlehem,  lead  !" 

The  words  ran  together  and  stopped  suddenly, 
as  if  butting  against  a  wall ;  the  tune  had  been 
lost  in  the  various  transmigration  of  voices. 
"Would  it  be  safe  to  leave  the  door  open  now?" 
Had  He  no  more  use  for  His  little  church  to- 
night ?  If  He  should  come  and  find  it  closed 
against  Him  ? 

Herbert  did  not  shut  it  as  he  went  out.  The 
dago  family  hung  around  their  shop  like  bunches 
of  their   own   tropical  fruits,  gorgeous   in   their 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  239 

bright  clothes,  which  nature  must  have  furnished 
and  renewed  from  year  to  year,  like  foliage,  so 
harmonious  and  unconventional  were  they;  Maria 
with  her  dress  open,  perhaps,  a  trifle  too  much 
over  the  thick  yellow  skin,  for  nature  is  not  pru- 
dish ;  but  there  was  a  long  lock  of  black  hair  to 
fall  across  it,  just  where  baby  hands  could  clutch 
and  play  with  it.  Every  year  there  was  a  new 
bloom,  so  to  speak,  around  the  door ;  a  new  baby 
to  toy  with  the  hair  and  lie  on  the  breast,  to  be 
weaned  afterwards  by  Marianna,  and  then  turned 
out  with  the  rest  into  the  whole  street  for  nurs- 
ery. They  slept  on  the  stem  as  their  fruit  did, 
for  all  the  street  knew  to  the  contrary,  the  latest 
retirers  and  the  earliest  risers  never  hitting  on 
the  moment  when  their  banquette  was  empty  or 
their  house  full.  They  were  doing  a  rushing  busi- 
ness this  evening,  uniting  all  the  forces  of  the 
family — Salvatore,  Maria,  Marianna,  down  to  the 
last  lisping  tongue— for  English  in  which  to  ne- 
gotiate it. 

The  great  thoroughfare  still  held  its  throng, 
but  the  brilliant  shops  looked  rifled  and  empty ; 
the  tired  clerks  leaned,  pale  and  haggard,  over 
their  disordered  counters  ;  the  flower-women  were 
gone,  the  street  booths  were  being  covered  up, 
buying  and  selling  were  over,  yet  still  the  moving 
procession  filled  the  banquettes  and  blocked  the 
corners.  The  theatres  were  discharging  their  au- 
diences, the  great  octagonal  circus  giving  forth 


240 


THE   CHRISTMAS   STORY 


as  if  it  had  hidden  inside  some  inexhaustible 
source  of  human  beings.  The  easy  -  swinging 
doors  of  the  saloons  swallowed  some  in  as  they 
passed ;  some  went  in  to  the  grand  entrances  of 
the  social  clubs;  the  cars  carried  loads  of  them 
away ;  skimming  off  by  degrees  the  more  respect- 
able element,  and  all  the  women.  The  harmless 
period  of  jollity  was  passing ;  the  horns  became 
instruments  of  disturbance  and  annoyance ;  the 
fire-crackers  were  too  loud,  and  left  behind  them 
the  reekings  of  gunpowder ;  evil-looking  men  in 
shabby  garments  prowled  about  their  lairs  in  ob- 
scure side  streets  and  dark  alleyways. 

Almost  midnight !    Almost  Christmas  morning  ! 

Once  !  Four,  five,  six  times  ! — too  quick  for 
counting — well-known  sharp  reports  fell  upon  the 
air  ;  pistol-shots,  no  fire-crackers  ;  the  imitation 
sound,  after  all,  was  imperfect.  A  rush  of  men 
out  of  a  side  street,  with  the  fear  of  murder  and 
the  witness-box  behind  them,  gave  the  clew  to 
the  curious. 

"  Killed  ?" 

"  How  many  ?" 

"  Not  dead  yet  ?" 

"  Who  did  it  ?" 

The  galloping  horses  of  the  ambulance  went  by; 
policemen  lead  through  the  crowd  three  sudden- 
ly sobered,  pale-faced  men,  one  with  a  pistol  still 
in  his  hand.  The  ambulance  returned  slov/ly,  and 
a  cab  passed  with  men  in  it  trying  to  hold  erect 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  24I 

an  inert  body ;  then  the  bells,  which  had  been 
waiting  a  year  for  this  moment,  pealed  out  with 
all  their  might  and  brazenness ;  the  big  bells 
calling  up  the  little  bells,  the  church  bells  sum- 
moning the  fire  bells,  and  all  together  rousing 
every  bell  in  every  factory,  market,  and  depot, 
till  there  was  not  an  idle  or  a  stationary  bell  in 
the  city.  Peace,  good-will,  peace  and  good-will 
on  earth,  on  earth  as  in  heaven. 

The  great,  vague,  dim  ships  and  steamboats  on 
the  river,  wakened  like  sleeping  monsters  from 
their  mist  and  inertness,  gave  voice,  tardily  tak- 
ing up  the  cry  with  their  hoarse  steam-whistles, 
bellowing  an  inarticulate  and  beast-like  accom- 
paniment to  the  sweet  human  rejoicings  of  the 
bells.  And  all  who  had  breath  or  horns  or  fire- 
works left  expended  them  royally  during  the  first 
five  minutes  of  the  great  Birth-morn. 

Herbert  obeyed  the  bell  that  called  to  midnight 
mass  in  the  cathedral,  down  a  narrow  street,  over- 
hung with  iron  lace-work  of  balconies,  following 
the  file  of  worshippers  contributed  from  every 
house  door.  The  bronze  equestrian  statue  in  the 
square  gleamed  like  silver  through  a  coating  of 
dew;  the  sharp  electric  light  pierced  the  hidden 
places  of  the  roses  and  jasmines,  whose  perfume 
freighted  the  air  into  heaviness.  Through  the 
open  doors  of  the  cathedral  the  lights  of  the  altar 
were  seen,  over  an  undistinguishable  mass  of 
heads ;  the  steps  in  the  possession  of  a  mob, 


242  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

pushing  and  elbowing  for  entrance ;  negro  faces 
under  head -kerchiefs,  white  faces  under  laces, 
still  flushed  from  the  dance,  lips  still  wet  with 
champagne;  the  greasy  jacket  of  the  boot-black 
rubbing  against  a  dress-coat,  the  calico  sacque 
of  the  "marchande"  brushing  aside  a  silk  cloak 
from  bare  shoulders.  The  cross,  gaunt,  old  uni- 
formed Suisse  burrowed  in  the  crowd,  rebuking 
the  loud-mouthed,  tapping  with  his  staff  the  ir- 
reverent, collaring  small  boys,  and  cuffing  them 
all  the  way  out  to  the  street.  The  sleepy,  indif- 
ferent priest  mumbles  the  prayers  to  the  sleepy, 
indifferent  saints  niched  in  the  darkness  above. 
The  motley  congregation  arrested  their  conversa- 
tion to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  or  dropped 
momentarily  on  one  knee  ;  until  the  familiar  voice 
of  the  favorite  opera  singer  sang  the  "  Cantique 
de  Noel."     "  Noel !  Noel !" 

A  hush  fell  on  them  all.  Even  the  Virgin,  in 
her  gaudy  incarnation  of  paint  and  gilt,  must  be 
impressed.  Even  the  most  thoughtless,  the  wild- 
est, the  wickedest,  must  pause  for  that  one  mo- 
ment of  singing. 

"  What  do  men  and  women  like  those  feel  and 
think  in  such  a  pause  ?" 

Herbert  looked  at  a  group,  staying  their  laugh- 
ing and  jesting  and  undue  familiarities  of  hand 
and  tongue.  The  hymn  was  ending,  one  last 
note  thrilling  the  air,  the  current  of  people  al- 
ready setting  towards  the  street  again. 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  243 

"  Where  is  your  baby  ?"  Herbert  recognized 
one  of  the  young  women  by  an  inspiration 
tlirough  her  blazonry  of  silk  and  jewels  —  the 
asylum  girl. 

Her  face  paled  at  his  question  as  it  did  that 
afternoon  on  the  chancel  steps,  showing  on  each 
cheek  a  spot  of  rouge  in  startling  relief. 

"  My  baby  ?" 

She  tried  to  say  it  derisively,  tried  to  make  her 
pretty  eyes  flash  at  him,  tried  to  throw  off  his 
hand,  tried  to  laugh  with  the  others.  In  vain. 
The  mother  in  her  deserted  the  woman ;  with  all 
her  effort  nothing  was  left  of  her  but  a  weak, 
trembling,  ghastly,  conscience -stricken  creature, 
with  breasts  throbbing  wildly,  hands  craving  their 
burden,  and  a  heart  which  all  through  the  dinner 
and  the  opera,  the  champagne  and  the  revelry, 
had  been  dragging  her  back — back  to  the  steps 
where  she  had  deserted  her  own  flesh  and  blood. 

The  men,  elegant  and  discreet,  looked  before 
them ;  the  women  tittered,  whispered,  pointed ;  they 
were  older  than  she.  The  crowd  carried  them  all 
off,  leaving  her  standing  by  the  young  pastor. 

"  Have  you  put  it  in  an  asylum .?" 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !" 

"  Take  me  to  it." 

He  took  her  hand  and  led  her  out,  pulling  her 
along  for  a  square  or  two ;  then  she  led  him,  in- 
creasing her  speed,  as  the  bad  spell  on  her  weak- 
ened, faster  and  faster,  until,  almost  in  a  run,  she 


244  THE    CHRISTMAS    STORY 

reached  the  bright  lights  of  the  broad  thorough- 
fare. She  pulled  him  across  it,  and  on,  on,  past 
house  after  house,  to  where  his  little  church  stood 
gray  and  shadowy  in  the  night.  Up  to  the  church, 
to  the  steps,  up  the  steps  to  the  corner  appro- 
priated by  the  Sicilian  Marianna. 

"  Gone  !  Gone  !  My  baby  gone  !"  she  screamed. 
She  got  down  on  her  knees  and  felt  the  place  with 
her  hands,  going  over  and  over  it,  as  if  searching 
for  a  pin.  "  Could  it  have  rolled  down  ?"  She 
rushed  out  in  the  banquette  and  looked  up  and 
down ;  she  bent  over  the  gutter  and  plunged  her 
hands  in  the  slime  and  mud.  "  My  baby !  My 
baby  !  Gone  !  I  put  it  here — right  here  " — lay- 
ing her  hand  on  the  spot — "where  the  little  dago 
girl  sits.  She  would  have  found  it,  taken  care  of 
it,  nursed  it.  Every  day  I've  seen  her  here  :  she 
looked  like  the  picture  of  the  Virgin." 

"  You  abandoned  it ;  why  should  you  care  for 
it  ?"  He  could  not  ask  the  question  of  her  as 
she  stood  illoglcally,  inconsequently  weeping  and 
wringing  her  hands,  her  hat  and  feathers  awry, 
her  long,  light,  wrinkled  gloves  wet  to  the  elbow 
with  gutter  mud.  From  all  eternity  women  have 
been  mothers,  only  faithless  momentarily. 

"  I  resisted,  I  resisted,  but  the  Christmas  com- 
ing— the  noise,  the  lights,  the  music,  the  fire- 
crackers— they  called  me  out,  as  they  called  me 
out  of  the  asylum,  out  into  life,  into  the  world. 
It  was  the  devil   again  at  me — the  devil !     My 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  245 

baby !  My  pretty  little  baby  !  She  will  be  sent 
to  the  police-station  ;  she  will  be  put  in  an  asylum, 
to  be  called  out,  as  I  was,  by  the  devil.  She  will 
be  taken  by  people  who  will  beat  her,  by  negroes 
who  will  degrade  and  corrupt  her.  The  little 
dago  girl  would  have  been  kind  to  her.  I  could 
have  seen  her  every  day.  My  baby  !  Now  I've 
lost  her  forever." 

Marianna  did  not  wait  for  the  bell  from  her 
own  fosterling  church,  for  she  knew  that  it  was 
too  poor  to  possess  one.  But  about  the  time  for 
the  other  bells  to  ring,  she  ran  in  from  her  oyster 
and  banana  selling  to  midnight  mass  there.  No 
crowd,  no  lights,  no  music.  She  slipped  through 
the  open  door.  Was  this  a  church  on  Christmas 
Eve  ? 

It  could  not  have  been  finer  in  heaven  itself 
than  at  San  Antonio's,  their  patron  saint's,  last 
year.  The  stable,  the  oxen,  the  manger,  the  Vir- 
gin, the  Wise  Men,  and  St.  Joseph — all  life-size 
and  death-stiff.  And  not  even  in  heaven,  unless 
in  the  Italian  quarter  of  it,  could  the  candles 
(great  monoliths  of  wax  with  orchidaceous  efflo- 
rescence, only  slightly  yellow  with  age),  the  gilt 
and  silver,  the  paper  flowers  and  coloring,  be  ex- 
celled. And  the  votive  legs,  arms,  hearts,  hands, 
eyes — they  hung  around  like  the  gleanings  of  a 
battlefield ;  and  the  mental  and  moral  cures,  with 
the  printed  acknowledgments — San  Antonio  must 


246  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

surely  have  thought  of  the  decoration  of  his  own 
church  when  he  undertook  so  many  miracles. 
That  was  a  church  !  Here  was  nothing,  abso- 
lutely nothing,  but  sad  green  leaves.  She  knelt 
down  at  the  altar.  If  there  had  been  only  a  bam- 
bino for  the  empty  manger !  Could  not  God, 
who  sent  bambinos  in  quantities  on  the  asking, 
have  spared  one  poor  little  infant  for  this  cradle  ? 
Why  did  not  the  patron  saint  of  this  church  emu- 
late the  example  of  the  industrious  San  Antonio  ? 
Not  one  image!  Not  one  ex  iwto I  Not  a  flower 
or  a  gilt  leaf !  She  looked  at  Pepe  in  her  arms, 
and  at  the  font.  Here  was  the  cradle  ;  here  is 
where  the  bambino  should  lie.  But  Pepe  was 
far  beyond  the  age  and  cleanliness  for  the  role ; 
his  time  of  dismissal  was  about  come  ;  precocious 
as  he  was,  he  had  not  learned  to  crawl  a  moment 
too  soon.  The  rich  ladies  of  the  neighborhood 
might  have  given  a  bambino,  or  loaned  one  of 
their  own. 

"  Marianna  !  Marianna  !"  her  mother  called. 
Maria  would  have  sent  her  voice  into  the  very 
Vatican  when  she  was  in  a  temper ;  and  the 
Holy  Father  himself  would  hardly  have  dared 
defer  obedience.  The  little  girl  ran  by  her  cor- 
ner of  the  steps.  Who  had  been  invading  it  .-• — 
her  own  temper  now  rising.  The  bundle  fell 
open  at  her  touch,  exposing  the  contents. 

"  A  bambino  !  a  bambino  !  God  has  sent  a 
bambino !"      A   beautiful    bambino,    clean    and 


OF   A    LITTLE   CHURCH.  247 

white,  with  naked  feet  and  hands.  She  dropped 
Pepe,  and  carried  it  in  quickly,  and  laid  it  on 
the  green  couch  in  the  baptismal  font  in  time 
for  the  first  stroke  of  the  great  bell  that  led  the 
ringing  choral,  over-ringing  her  mother's  vocifer- 
ous "  Marianna !  Marianna  !" 

"  Where  are  you  going .?"  asked  Herbert,  taking 
the  girl  by  her  wrist  again. 

"  Nowhere  !  nowhere !  There's  no  place  for 
me  to  go  on  earth.  My  baby  !  my  baby  !"  She 
tried  to  break  from  him.  "  Let  me  go !  let  me 
go  !  I've  lost  my  child  !  I've  killed  her  !  Let 
me  kill  myself,  too  !" 

Her  voice  was  loud  and  violent.  People  pass- 
ing by  turned  back  to  look  at  the  desperate  woman 
in  struggle  with  a  man. 

There  was  one  place  open  for  her  and  all  like 
her ;  the  host  was  standing  in  the  door  to  wel- 
come her.  Herbert  lifted  her,  still  struggling,  up 
the  steps,  and  carried  her,  tight  and  fast  in  his 
arms,  to  the  spot  where  she  had  fallen  prostrate, 
a  broken,  helpless  creature  offering  her  child  to 
the  Saviour.  The  star  shone  over  the  place. 
Her  eyes  were  quicker  than  his,  but  she  thought 
it  a  fantasy ;  her  poor  brain  had  been  so  dis- 
traught. She  had  been  seeing  this  baby  so  long ; 
for  weary,  weary  months ;  through  the  glaze  of 
fever  at  the  hospital,  through  suffering,  privation, 
temptation.     She  had  just  been  seeing  it  lost, 


248  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

stolen,  ill-treated,  dead.  She  could  trust  her 
eyes  no  more  ;  she  closed  them  on  the  vision,  but 
they  would  not  stay  closed. 

He  thought  her  cry  was  maniacal,  and  her  ac- 
tions, tearing  and  scattering  the  greens  from  the 
font. 

"  I  gave  her  to  Him,  and  now  He  has  given 
her  back  to  me.  See  !  see  !  I  gave  her  to  Him, 
and  now  He  has  given  her  back  to  me."  She 
held  the  bambino  towards  Herbert. 

With  the  fear  of  the  committee  before  his  eyes, 
Herbert  replaced,  as  well  as  he  could,  the  fontal 
decorations,  artfully  trying  to  suggest  in  the  re- 
placement an  impending  top-heaviness. 

"  Where  are  you  going  now  ?" 

If  he  could  only  have  seen  the  radiance,  the 
sweet  holy  radiance  of  her  face  ! 

"  Home  !  home  !  with  my  baby — my  child  !" 

As  they  descended  the  steps  a  limp  figure 
rolled  and  lolled  over  a  protesting  accordion. 

"Into  the  light, 
Into  the  right, 
Christ  of  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  sir  !  that's  so  !"  The  words  ended  in  a 
snore. 

The  little  church  had  a  grand  congregation,  a 
most  surprising  congregation,  for  Christmas  Day. 
Everybody  who  was  anybody  in  the  neighbor- 
hood seemed  to  be  getting  up  too  late  for  any 


OF   A   LITTLE   CHURCH.  249 

but  the  one  church — the  gentlemen  could  not 
finish  their  breakfasts  in  time,  nor  the  ladies 
dress  themselves  sufficiently  fine,  nor  the  children 
be  made  ready,  for  the  fashionable  churches  up- 
town. All  came.  The  nobodies  of  the  neighbor- 
hood all  came,  hot  from  dusting  and  sweeping 
and  washing  up  dishes ;  the  cooks  ran  in  pulling 
down  their  sleeves,  the  maids  with  their  caps  and 
aprons  ;  the  passers-by  stopped  in  for  a  prayer  or 
two  ;  and  all  the  roving  churchless  Christians, 
who  could  not  pay  pew  rent  anywhere,  or  who 
had  been  dropped  by  their  pastors  or  shunned 
by  other  church  officers  as  irretrievables — the  lit- 
tle church  gathered  them  all  in  ;  not  only  them, 
but  their  offerings — big  donations  intended  for 
bigger  churches,  and  the  mites  which  were  too 
small  for  any  church  but  this  one.  The  young 
gentlemen  from  the  boarding-house  come  over  at 
least  in  time  for  the  plate,  and  those  who  could 
not  come  sent  crumpled  bank-bills  by  their  col- 
ored waiters. 

The  music  was  wretched,  every  one  said,  the 
sermon  more  commonplace  than  ever,  the  reading 
miserable,  the  decorations  paltry.  But  it  was 
soon  over — a  compensating  merit  fully  appre- 
ciated by  the  members  of  the  clubs  just  around 
the  corner.  By  twelve  o'clock  they  were  all 
away  —  all  except  a  tall,  burly,  shy  man  and  a 
neat,  little,  pale,  trembling  lady,  and  a  long  file 
of  children  afflicted  with  irrepressible  hilarity, 


250  THE   CHRISTMAS    STORY 

munching  apples  and  whispering  their  admira- 
tion over  the  agile  performances  of  a  lame  boy 
on  a  new  crutch. 

"  I  took  your  advice  last  night,  sir,  and  I  hope 
you  will  marry  us  this  morning,  sir.  I've  got  her 
now,  and  she  sha'n't  give  me  the  slip  again." 

There  was  no  need  to  answer  this,  but  woman- 
like the  bride  would  have  attempted  it  if  Herbert 
had  not  immediately  commenced  the  marriage- 
service.  The  delighted  vestry,  with  their  .pocket- 
handkerchiefs  tied  to  bursting  over  the  bills, 
trade-dollars,  halves,  quarters,  dimes,  and  pica- 
yunes taken  up  in  the  collection,  acted  as  wit- 
nesses, and  gave  the  bride  away  in  a  body,  col- 
lecting their  kisses,  however  (or  they  would  not 
have  been  in  the  vestry),  singly  and  individually. 
They  shook  hands  with  the  groom  and  tipped  the 
children,  from  Louisa  to  Baby. 

When  they  were  all  leaving  the  church  together, 
beaming  under  the  load  of  Merry  Christmases 
they  had  received  and  Merry  Christmases  they 
had  given,  who  should  appear  with  the  greatest 
alacrity  from  the  corner  where  she  and  her  curi- 
osity had  been  concealed  but  Mrs.  Bunnyfeather, 
note-book  in  hand,  and  mindful  as  ever  of  her 
duty  as  secretary  of  the  Sunday-school  chapter. 
Not  one  of  those  little  Wiggenses  was  allowed  to 
depart  until  the  last  name,  age,  and  sex  had  been 
registered  as  Sunday-school  scholars,  member- 
ship to  commence  that  very  evening  at  the  Sun- 


OF   A   LITTLE    CHURCH. 


251 


day-school  Christmas-tree,  on  which,  she  assured 
them,  Santa  Claus  had  hung  a  present  for  each 
one  of  them  by  name.  Surprising  as  it  may  seem, 
such  really  turned  out  to  be  the  case — not  one 
was  forgotten. 


IN   THE   FRENCH    QUARTER.     1870. 


IN   THE   FRENCH   aUARTER.     1870. 

.^OW,  Margot?" 

"In  a  moment,  monsieur;"  and 


Margot's  scrubbing-brush  proceeded 
with  accelerated  force. 

The  cathedral  clock  in  the  vicin- 
ity struck  the  quarter. 

"But  the  time  passes,  my  good  Margot." 

"  In  just  one  minute,  monsieur." 

The  clock  rang  the  half-hour. 

"  Margot !" 

"  I  am  going  now,  monsieur,  at  once." 

Monsieur  Villeminot  heard  the  sound  of  the 
floor-cloth  really  ceasing  at  the  sill  of  the  door, 
and  a  last  handful  of  brick-dust  fall  scattering 
over  the  wet  boards,  and  the  bucket  being  car- 
ried out. 

The  room  was  so  small  that  privacy  could  only 
be  obtained  by  standing  behind  him  as  he  sat  in 
his  great  leather-covered  easy  chair,  an  antiquated 
"  Voltaire,"  whose  flattened  springs  and  stufifing 
were  assisted  by  pillows  and  cushions  of  divers 
shapes  and  hues.  Margot  unpinned  the  piece  of 
bagging  that  served  for  an  apron,  let  down  her 


256  IN   THE    FRENCH   QUARTER.       1870. 

skirt  over  her  stockingless  ankles,  and  passed  a 
dean  calico  dress  over  the  soiled  damp  one  she 
had  on.  As  she  had  explained  to  Madame  St. 
Georges  only  the  day  before,  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders  :  "  Mon  dieu,  madame  !  I  have  not 
known  a  more  intimate  garment  than  a  dress  in 
years,  years."  She  gave  a  glance  of  satisfaction 
over  the  well-scrubbed  floor.  "  At  any  rate,  it  is 
done  now  for  a  week,"  she  said,  more  to  herself 
than  to  the  occupant  of  the  chair,  and  shuffled 
out  of  the  room  in  her  old  carpet  slippers. 

When  he  heard  the  door  close  behind  her,  the 
old  man  among  his  cushions  began  as  usual  to 
mutter  his  thoughts  audibly,  a  disconnected,  un- 
intelligible monologue,  getting  more  and  more  dis- 
tinct with  the  certainty  of  solitude.  His  fine  aris- 
tocratic language  resembled  Margot's  daily  speech 
as  the  silken  toilets  of  the  ladies  in  the  street  re- 
sembled her  calico  homeliness  ;  it  was  as  much 
out  of  place  in  the  menial  interior  of  his  habita- 
tion as  the  long  row  of  glistening-back  books  that 
filled  the  mantel-shelf.  He  bent  his  head  forward, 
listening  to  his  own  voice  furtively,  as  he  once 
might  have  looked  at  his  face  in  the  glass,  pro- 
nouncing the  words  and  phrases  tentatively,  inter- 
rogatively, scanning  his  toothless  articulation.  In 
his  sightless,  motionless  existence  the  contracted 
enclosure  of  his  apartment  set  no  limits  to  the 
vast  blank  space  that  surrounded  him;  a  space 
furnished  only  by  the  dim  scenery  of  a  lived-out 


IN   THE   FRENCH   QUARTER.       1870.  257 

past,  and  with  but  one  certain  living  reality  in  it — 
himself.  To-day  his  words  came  not,  as  sometimes, 
from  literary  corners  or  imaginative  niches  in  his 
memory.  Imagination  for  once  v,'as  stilled,  liter- 
ature forgotten,  phantasms  and  visions  dissolved. 
The  brows  over  his  blind  eyes  wrinkled  and  fur- 
rowed, his  palsied  hands  clasped  and  unclasped  ex- 
citedly the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  his  w^hite-haired 
head,  responsive  to  his  own  eloquence,  rose  wrath- 
fully  erect.  Expressions  original  in  their  inspira- 
tion fell  from  his  lips,  and  his  voice  resounded  so 
firm,  so  determined  in  his  own  ears  that,  had  his 
eyes  been  suddenly  unsealed,  he  would  have  ex- 
pected to  see  not  a  decrepit  Octogenarian,  pros- 
trate upon  the  cushions  of  an  easy  chair,  quartered 
in  a  wretched,  isolated  closet  on  a  servant's  gal- 
lery ;  but  a  youthful,  heroic,  vigorous  figure,  aflame 
with  ardor,  strength,  and  patriotism,  repulsing  by 
word  and  blow,  in  chamber  or  field,  the  audacious 
invasion  of  his  country;  the  only  figure  to  enclose 
a  French  heart,  the  only  heart  for  a  youth  born 
under  the  star  of  Napoleon  I.,  the  only  scene  and 
action  for  a  French  patriot  in  the  year  1870  !  A 
fit  of  coughing  arrested  the  resurrection  of  his 
youthful  self,  and  he  fell  back  exhausted — back 
into  age,  infirmity,  and  impotence,  into  the  grave- 
clothes  and  cofhn  boundaries  of  his  chair. 

All  the  other  rooms  on  the  gallery  that  Margot 
passed  were  closed  and  locked,  the  lodgers  work- 
ing out  by  the  day.     She  turned  into  an  open, 


258  IN   THE   FRENCH   QUARTER.       1870. 

arched  vestibule  and  went  down  the  contorted, 
narrow  staircase  holding  the  balustrade  with  one 
hand,  clutching  at  the  wall  with  the  other,  and 
trying  to  step  upon  safe  places. 

The  railing  was  black  and  greasy  from  con- 
stant handling,  and  the  mortar  had  been  scratch- 
ed away  from  the  brick  all  the  way  down  by  out- 
stretched fingers.  "Ah,  the  Pagan  1"  she  muttered, 
"he  will  break  our  necks  yet  some  day  with  his 
old  'guet-a-peus.'  "  Had  they  but  have  material- 
ized the  reproaches  and  animadversions  upon  old 
Grouille,  the  landlord,  they  would  have  incrusted 
the  roof  like  stalactites. 

The  landing-place  was  filled  with  buckets  and 
tubs,  the  brick  iloor  was  mouldy  from  dampness, 
and  the  fumes  of  charcoal  poured  from  the  Car- 
lins'  open  room,  where  a  furnace  stood  in  the  fire- 
place heating  its  load  of  irons  to  redness.  Margot 
went  in  and  deliberately  removed  them  one  after 
the  other  carefully  to  the  bricks.  The  bed  in  the 
corner  of  the  whilom  kitchen  was  heaped  with 
rough-dry  clothes;  the  doorless  armoire  held  heaps 
of  ironed  pieces.  On  the  ironing-table  was  a  bro- 
ken basin  of  raw  starch,  a  cracked  soup-plate  of 
bluing  and  an  unfinished  shirt,  the  bosom  dry- 
ing into  wrinkles;  Monsieur  Wilhelm's  weekly 
shirt  it  was,  marked  distinctly  with  red  cross- 
stitch,  for  the  washing  and  ironing  of  which  he 
gave  tri-weekly  lessons  in  penmanship  to  Rou- 
gette  and  Blanchette,  the  overgrown,  but  under- 


IN  THE   FRENCH   QUARTER.       1870.  259 

gifted,  sixteen-year-old  twin-daughters  of  the  wid- 
ow Carlin.  It  was  hke  the  Carlins  to  rush  out 
thus  heedlessly  from  their  work  at  the  first  cry 
of  news;  and  Margot's  shake  of  the  head  beto- 
kened as  much.  She  looked  into  all  the  other 
rooms  on  the  ground -floor,  but,  like  that  of  the 
Carlins,  they  were  deserted  and  disordered.  She 
reluctantly  crossed  the  court-yard,  pulling  at  and 
fastening  her  dress,  and  entered  the  long  corri- 
dor, the  domain  of  the  wealth  and  elite  of  the 
lodging-house. 

Even  Monsieur  Fre'jus,  she  saw,  had  been  se- 
duced away  from  his  post  behind  his  little  glass 
counter  filled  with  an  inestimable  treasure  of  red 
and  white  coral  beads,  devotional  images  and 
plated  silver  medals,  crucifixes,  and  prayer-beads. 

A  volume  of  mixed  voices  directed  her  to  "  La 
Rose  de  France,"  the  shoe-shop  of  Monsieur  Re- 
naudiere.  There  she  found  them  all  assembled, 
the  small  room  quite  full.  "Papa"  Renaudiere,  in 
his  shirt-sleeves  and  working  apron,  was  talking 
and  gesticulating  furiously,  waving  and  rustling 
the  last  "Extra"  in  his  hands;  his  spectacles 
pushed  back  to  the  bald  place  on  the  top  of  his 
head,  his  eyes  flaming,  his  hair  and  whiskers  bris- 
tling out  laterally  from  nervous  manipulation. 

Monsieur  Frejus's  head  was  still  moving  back- 
ward and  forward  in  the  melancholy  oscillations 
produced  by  the  first  item  in  the  cablegram  of  the 
"Extra."   His  spectacles,  over  his  dim,  abstracted 


260  IN   THE    FRENCH   QUARTER.       1870, 

eyes,  looked  like  the  glasses  of  an  unlighted  lan- 
tern, and  his  countenance  was  as  dejected  as  the 
holy  effigies  on  his  crucifixes.  He  stood  with  his 
back  to  the  street,  leaning  against  the  show-win- 
dow where  Monsieur  Renaudiere's  misfits  were 
vindictively  kept  on  exhibition;  a  high -heeled, 
pointed-toed  array  of  pedal  beauty;  a  temptation 
and  reproach  to  the  slipshod  passers-by,  and  a 
vaunting  advertisement  of  Monsieur  Renaudiere's 
superiority  in  skill  and  artistry  over  bungling, 
clumsy  Nature,  and  a  standing  taunt  and  chal- 
lenge to  her  for  competition  or  imitation. 

All  the  Carlins  were  wedged  into  the  back  door 
of  the  workshop  with  the  journeymen ;  the  widow's 
sleeves  rolled  to  the  shoulder,  and  her  fat  white 
feet  gleaming  in  the  bottom  of  her  sabots ;  her 
youthful  twin  replicas  of  her  honest,  handsome 
face  peering  over  her  shoulder.  The  journeymen 
listened  open  -  mouthed,  looking  withal  askance 
at  Madame  Renaudiere,  who,  towering  behind  her 
diminutive  husband,  led  the  chorus  of  lamenta- 
tion with  a  rank  Gascon  accent. 

"  Ah,  la  pauvre  Patrie  vas  !" 

"  Pauvre  France !" 

"  Mon  Dieu  !     Mon  Dieu  !" 

"  Ah,  she  has  no  luck  any  longer." 

"  It's  a  malediction  !" 

"  What  will  she  do  now  ?" 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Margot, 
eagerly,  entering  from  the  corridor. 


IN   THE   FRENCH   QUARTER,       1870.  261 

"  Sedan  !" 

"  Sddan !" 

"  Sedan !" 

"  Mais  c'est  dans  quoi  ?" 

"  C'est  dans  le  desespoir,"  answered  IMonsieur 
Renaudiere  promptly,  in  his  character  of  wit  and 
patriot. 

"  Ah,  oui,  c'est  dans  le  desespoir."  Madame 
Renaudiere  rolled  out  the  words  as  if  her  mouth 
Avere  lined  with  cobble-stones. 

"  In  truth,  my  friends,  it  is  a  great  calamity." 
The  mincing  accent  of  the  little  Parisian  flower- 
maker  came  from  the  folds  of  a  pocket-handker- 
chief, behind  which  her  enterprising  eyes  cast  lan- 
guishing overtures  towards  old  Grouille  the  land- 
lord. He,  unconscious  of  sympathy  or  notice,  sat 
on  the  dainty  sofa  reserved  for  customers,  hold- 
ing his  bushy  head  with  both  hands,  excusably 
as  Alsacian  as  well  as  Frenchman,  giving  him- 
self up  to  those  uncurbed  demonstrations  of  grief 
usually  devoted  to  absconding  tenants. 

"  Sedan,  dog  of  a  name  !"  snarled  Jacquet  from 
the  "  Quincaillerie  "  opposite.  He  was  Monsieur 
Renaudiere's  formidable  rival  in  eloquence,  pa- 
triotism, and  politics,  and  a  fervent  red  republican, 
priest-hater,  and  woman-hater  to  boot ;  although 
there  were  on-dits  and  shrugs  and  winks  enough 
in  the  neighborhood  and  suspicions  enough  in 
his  second-hand  shop  to  seriously  attaint  the  loy- 
alty of  this  last  profession  of  his  at  least. 


262  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.       1870. 

"  But — "  began  Margot  again. 

"  Chut !"  whispered  Anais  Renaudiere,  pulling 
her  skirt;  "it's  the  French,  the  French!" 

"  The  French,"  interrupted  the  keen  -  eared 
Monsieur  Renaudiere,  fiercely  snatching  her  ex- 
planation from  her.  "  The  French,  Madame 
Margot ;  France  !  .  .  .  "  He  cleared  his  throat, 
which  was  indeed  husky  from  emotion  or  pro- 
longed exertion.  "France!"  all  looked  up  for 
an  expected  verbal  palliative.  "France  is  — 
France  is —  It  is  a  freak  of  nature!  It  is  an 
event !  It  is  an  occurrence  !  It !  France !"  He 
looked  around  at  them  all ;  he  could  not  say 
it.  "  France  is  eclipsed,  momentarily  eclipsed  !" 
He  launched  the  word  triumphantly.  "A  cloud 
is  passing  over  her ;  a  cloud  of  Prussians.  Can 
the  sun,  can  the  moon  be  destroyed  ?  Well,  as 
they  are  the  orbs  of  the  heavens,  so  is  France 
the  orb  of  the  earth,  and" — he  was  in  full 
course  now  — "  indestructible  except  by  cata- 
clysm !" 

"Enfant  du  bon  Dieu !"  came  in  naive  awe 
from  Madame  Carlin. 

"  Ha !  it  is  not  the  end !  You  think  it  is  the 
end !  But  wait,  wait  for  the  last  word.  Your 
Bice  Marque,  your  Molque,  your  Que'sair  ..." 
This  apostrophe,  different  in  tone  and  direction, 
caused  his  audience  to  start.  "  Monsieur  Vil- 
lem  !"  they  exclaimed.  Even  Monsieur  Frejus's 
head  stopped  vibrating  at  the  unfortunate  appari- 


IN   THE   FRENCH   QUARTER.      1870.  263 

tion  of  the  young  German  in  the  door-way  behind 
Madame  Margot. 

"  The  Prussians !  the  Prussians !"  screamed 
Monsieur  Renaudiere.  "  I  defy  the  Almighty 
Himself  to  create  a  Prussia  that  could  whip 
France !" 

"But  my  friends,"  commenced  the  young  man 
in  a  French  which  was  foreign  in  clearness  and 
precision — • 

"  Friends  !     Bah  !" 

"  Friends  !     Ah,  yes  !" 

"  Friends  !     French  and  Prussian  !     Friends  !" 

"  But  we  are  in  America  ;  we  are  Americans  !" 

"  Americans  !" 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  Americans  !" 

"  Americans  !  a  la  bonne  heure  !" 

"  We  are  to  call  ourselves  Americans,  hein  ? 
now,  when  our  country  is  being  assassinated  ?" 
called  out  the  ebullient  Madame  Renaudiere. 

"  Americans  !  vas  !"  sneered  the  journeymen. 

"  Yes,  when  America  was  in  danger,  we  were 
Americans  ;  America  was  our  country,  our  moth- 
er ;  but  France  !  France !  She  is  before  America, 
she  is  the  first,  the  source  of  countries  for  us ;  she 
is  the  divine  incarnation  of  '  la  patrie '  as  the 
Virgin,  as  the  Madonna,  is  the  incarnation  of 
womanhood.  When  I  say  France,"  the  tears  roll- 
ed down  his  face  before  them  all,  and  his  voice 
broke — "when  I  say  France,  it  is  as  if  every  drop 
of  blood  in  my  body  had  a  voice.     Expatriation 


264  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER,      1S70. 

may  change  the  body,  but  the  blood,  the  blood,  it 
is  always  the  same,  always  remains  loyal,  Gallic  ! 
Gallic,  my  friends  ;  and,"  with  an  acute  transition 
from  sentiment  into  anger  again,  "it  is  our  Gallic 
blood  that  calls  for  vengeance  to-day,  it  is  our 
Gallic  blood  that  blushes  to-day  at  the  insult  of 
destiny,  and  dares  to  reprove  God." 

"  Gallic  blood  !"  repeated  Madame  Renaudi^re, 
impressed  herself  and  proud  of  the  effect  of  the 
high-sounding  adjective  on  others. 

"  Bravo  !"  responded  Jacquet,  applauding  the 
reproof  to  God. 

Monsieur  Frejus  hastened  out  of  the  room  where 
patriotism  was  taking  a  turn  inconsistent  with  his 
pious  trade.  Monsieur  Wilhelm  Miiller,  the  plod- 
ding young  professor  of  Greek  and  Latin,  looked 
round  and  round  in  embarrassment,  uncertain 
whether  a  national  or  personal  explanation  would 
be  more  appropriate ;  a  deprecating  smile  on  his 
lips,  the  color  mounting  under  his  thin  skin,  his 
simple  blue  eyes  confessing  frankly  the  doubt  be- 
tween grief  and  anger.  He  had  been  fellow-lodger 
and  companion  to  them  for  years,  a  Prussian  to 
them  for  two  months ;  but  there  seemed  to  have 
been  a  tacit  nullification  of  all  former  propitiatory 
periods  and  relations.  From  each  familiar  face 
black  flags  and  martial  accoutrements  waved  and 
bristled  now  to  his  peaceful  overtures ;  even  from 
his  scholars  Rougette  and  Blanchette,  even  from 
Anais. 


IN   THE   FRENCH   QUARTER.      1870.  265 

The  shoe-upper  Anais  held  in  her  hand  shook 
and  quivered,  dancing  the  glistening,  pendent 
needle  at  the  end  of  a  long,  black- silk  thread. 
Her  head  was  tossed  back,  her  chest  heaved  tur- 
bulently;  in  her  eyes  rose  up  the  whole  terrible 
calamity  of  Sedan ;  those  shy,  alluring  black  eyes, 
his  paradise  and  temptation  !  For  the  first  time 
they  avoided  the  sweet  intoxication  of  a  rencon- 
tre with  his.  As  for  Margot,  she  stood  stupid 
and  silent,  neither  daring  to  hazard  another  ques- 
tion, nor  return  without  more  definite  information 
to  her  husband. 

The  women's  voices,  which  had  been  modulated 
in  woe,  began  to  rise  shrill  and  sharp  in  reflections 
and  insinuations  against  their  elected  foe,  Wil- 
helm,  now  in  full  retreat.  Margot  hastened  after 
him  through  the  damp  corridor  as  fast  as  her 
slippers  would  allow. 

"  Monsieur  Willem  !  Monsieur  Willem  !  For 
God's  sake,  tell  me  what  it  is  all  about !  I  can't 
understand  a  word,  no  one  will  explain — the  pa- 
tron waits,  he  is  agonized  to  hear  the  news.  It  is 
a  perfect  gombo." 

The  sharp  snapping  of  his  finger-tips  ceased, 
and  he  turned  around,  "  Sddan  !" 

"  But  that's  what  I  say !     C'est  dans  quoi  ?" 

"  It's  another  battle." 

"  What !  Only  another  battle  !  All  that  fuss 
about  a  battle  !  Mon  Dieu  !  I  thought  some  one 
had  been  killed !" 


266  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER,       1870. 

"  Tell  Monsieur  Villeminot  that  his  nation  is 
whipped,  his  Emperor  a  prisoner,  his  army  sur- 
rendered !  eighty  thousand  men,  eighty  thousand 
cowards  !  .  .  .  " 

"  Tell  Monsieur  Villeminot  that !  tell  '  mon  pa- 
tron'— oh.  Monsieur  Villem  !" 

"  I  am  as  big  a  fool  as  the  others,"  the  German 
exclaimed.  He  looked  down  on  the  little  woman 
with  her  patient,  earnest  face  raised  to  him,  and 
the  unbecoming,  ireful  gleam  in  his  eyes  faded 
away.  Her  feet  in  his  own  cast-off  slippers ;  her 
colorless  blond  hair,  her  sallow  skin,  her  tired, 
faded  features  ;  as  if  she  had  worn  away  her  nat- 
ural outfit  of  good-looks  with  her  clothes,  and  life 
had  only  second-hand  or  cast-off  supplies  to 
grant  to  her  poverty.  Her  figure,  in  the  pitiful 
manner  of  overtired  women,  bent  back  as  if  in 
search  of  support ;  but  her  eyes  looked  at  him 
from  it  all,  with  all  their  original  expression  of 
trust  and  confidence. 

"  If  he  could  read  it  for  himself,  if  some  one 
else  could  tell  him,  but  me  !  Mon  Uieu  !"  she 
explained. 

"  No,  I  will  not  speak  to  any  one  of  them  !  not 
one  of  them  V  the  young  man  broke  in  resent- 
fully at  the  sight  of  the  Carlins  crossing  the  yard 
in  his  direction.  "  I  shall  come  in  this  evening 
myself,  Madame  Margot ;  I  shall  bring  the  paper 
and  explain.  Do  not  you  say  anything.  Tell  him 
it's  a  mistake,  the  news  has  not  arrived  yet.   Mon- 


IN   THE   FRENCH   QUARTER.       1S70.  267 

sieur  Villeminot  shall  not  be  grieved.  Tenez  !  I 
had  almost  forgotten  the  coffee  and  the  picayune 
for  milk  for  to-morrow  morning."  He  put  a  small, 
fragrant,  brown -paper  parcel  and  a  coin  in  her 
hand,  and  hurriedly  walked  through  the  corridor 
into  the  street. 

The  cathedral  bells  rang  out  their  welcome  or 
illcome  intervening  hours,  measuring  their  second 
century  of  time  and  high  and  low  masses  to  the 
clockless,  watchless  humanity  of  the  city  in  the 
French  quarter ;  chiming  slowly  and  deliberately 
through  the  bright,  fleshy  days  of  the  young,  and 
most  cruelly  prolonging  the  fretful  impatience  of 
Monsieur  Wilhelm,  who  awaited  eagerly  for  the 
stroke  which  was  to  make  or  lose  a  day  in  his 
eternity.  But  hurrying  echo,  close  upon  stroke, 
linking  sunrise  to  sunset  in  an  ever- shortening 
chain  to  the  old — this  seemed  to  make  but  mo- 
ments of  the  diminishing,  flitting,  ghost-like  days 
of  the  blind  old  man  convulsively  grasping  from 
his  Voltaire  chair  after  but  life  enough  for  one 
more  item  of  earth  news :  the  viaticum  of  defeat 
or  victory  to  his  country !  hoping,  despairing,  ex- 
postulating, wrestling  with  Fate,  trafficking  with 
some  far-off  phantom  of  infantile  Faith,  conjuring 
up  a  belief  in  immortality,  that  he  might  barter 
or  wager  it  for  the  proud  privilege  of  continuing 
the  triumphant  traditions  of  a  stalwart  period, 
and  so  provide  delusions  still  for  his — French 
corpse. 


268  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER,      1870. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  ringing.  The  gas,  an  alter- 
nate mode  of  illumination  by  the  economical  city, 
was  being  turned  off.  The  unpunctual  moon  was, 
however,  behind  time ;  only  the  silvery  clouds, 
blown  by  a  light  breeze  across  the  segment  of 
heavens  above  the  court-yard,  warranted  the  reli- 
ability of  the  almanac,  and  told  of  the  distant 
brilliancy  in  store. 

"  Mademoiselle  Anais  !     Anais!" 

Monsieur  Wilhelm  walked  close  to  the  wall 
under  the  gallery,  and  tapped  with  the  merest  tip 
of  his  finger  on  the  glass  door  of  the  shoemaker's 
workroom.  He  could  see  the  light  through  the 
gathered  dimity  curtains,  and  he  knew  that  the  cir- 
cle of  radiation  inside  held  a  head  wound  around 
with  thick  black  plaits ;  a  gentille  little  head 
bending  over  button-hole  making  in  French  kid 
bottiiies. 

"  Mademoiselle  Anais  !     Anaischen." 

The  tap  and  whisper  were  accentuated  by  his 
ardent  heart.  He  knew  she  was  there  ;  there  was 
never  any  one  else  in  the  workroom  at  that  hour. 
Later  in  the  season,  yes,  in  midwinter  when  the 
carnival  was  crowded  with  balls,  then  it  would  be 
different,  there  would  then  be  bustle  and  noise 
enough  behind  the  curtains.  The  ponderous,  noisy 
old  sewing-machine  would  be  stuttering  and  stitch- 
ing through  bewildering  varieties  of  slippers,  ]\Ion- 
sieur  Renaudibre  would  be  volubly  ordering  and 
directing,  Madame   Renaudiere   no  less  volubly 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1870.  269 

disobeying  and  contradicting.  There  would  be 
no  little  quiet  moments  like  this  then  ! 

"Anais!" 

Sometimes  his  finger  barely  touched  the  door 
before  it  flew  open.  If  she  were  not  sitting  there 
making  button-holes,  she  was  standing  by  the  ta- 
ble comparing,  perhaps,  some  rejected  shoe  with 
original  measurements  ;  rehearsing  plausible  ex- 
cuses for  visible  differences,  protestations  against 
invisible  ones,  and  polishing  up  her  elocutionary 
skill  for  special  pleading  on  the  morrow  against 
obdurate  toe  twinges;  shrugging  her  shoulders, 
raising  her  eyebrows,  and  gesticulating  with  her 
long-nailed  fingers. 

Oh,  he  had  seen  her  preparing  often  enough, 
the  coquette ! 

It  was  very  necessary  to  reconnoitre  before 
knocking  in  front,  for  the  menage  Renaudiere 
was  in  as  constant  a  state  of  revolution  as  a  Cen- 
tral American  republic.  There  was  always  a 
struggle  for  domination  going  on  between  the 
stronger  and  weaker  sex,  freakishly  reversed  in 
the  husband  and  wife,  but  whichever  party  was 
victorious,  the  costs  of  revolution  never  failed  to 
be  extracted  out  of  Anais  and  the  younger  chil- 
dren. Of  seven  children  Anais  was  the  eldest, 
and  step-sister  to  the  rest.  It  was  a  moment  after 
one  of  these  reckonings  which  had  betrothed 
them.  The  good  God  had  sent  him  through  the 
corridor  and  Anais  out  of  the  door,  there  to  dry 


270  IN   THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1870. 

her  eyes,  at  the  same  instant.  One  little  moment, 
but  it  had  been  repeated  and  repeated  whenever 
their  glances  met.  Only,  the  white  eyelids  of 
Anais  would  always  waver  a  moment  too  soon, 
and  the  heavy  lashes  would  always  fall  just  in 
time  to  hide  the  confession  coming,  always  a 
thought  too  late,  from  the  frightened  little  heart ; 
the  tardy  flush  alone  arriving  to  remain  uncon- 
cealed, and  burn  eloquently  of  hidden  motives  to 
his  eyes.  Wilhelm's  dream  was  some  day  to  stay 
those  eyelids  but  long  enough  for  the  blush  and 
confession  to  meet. 

The  water  trickled  and  dripped  from  the  mossy 
green  cistern  behind  him  which  filled  an  angle  in 
the  galleries  and  screened  him  from  the  rest  of 
the  yard.  He  sat  down  on  the  bench  against  it, 
upsetting  the  tin  cup  hanging  over  the  faucet. 

"  Qui  va  la  ?"     (Who's  there  ?) 

He  heard  Madame  Renaudiere  bound  from  her 
bed.  Her  threatening  tones  fell  from  the  win- 
dow-shutters on  the  gallery  above  him. 

"Who's  there,  I  say?" 

The  heavy  hooks  dropped  from  the  windows, 
and  she  came  out  on  the  gallery,  hastily  pulling 
on  her  blouse-volante. 

"  Who's  there  ?  If  you  don't  answer  I  shall 
call  my  husband  !" 

This  was  intended  for  the  ignorant,  mal-inten- 
tioned  ones,  who  supposed  that  Monsieur  Renau- 
diere stayed  at  home  of  evenings  attending  to 


IN   THE   FRENCH   QUARTER,      1870.  271 

his  business,  instead  of  discussing  the  war  with 
Jacquet  and  others  at  the  "  Quincaillerie." 

"  Passe,  chat !  Passe !"  she  called,  after  a 
pause. 

"  It  is  only  I,  Madame  Renaudiere  !  Margot ! 
I  must  have  made  a  noise  coming  through  the 
corridor,  it  is  so  dark." 

"You,  Madame  Margot  ?     So  late  !" 

"  It  is  only  a  little  after  nine,  Madame  Renau- 
diere." 

"  Ah,  I  thought  it  was  cats  !" 

"  The  pests,  they  are  dreadful !  I  cannot  sleep 
for  them  myself  at  night.  '  Dieu  vous  benisse  !'  " 
Margot  called  promptly  as  a  violent  sneeze  shook 
the  gallery  above. 

"Ah!"  feeling  instinctively  for  her  snuffbox, 
"  I  am  catching  cold  !  Well,  good-night,  Madame 
Margot." 

"Good-night,  Madame  Renaudiere.  No  chance 
of  getting  in  without  your  knowing  it;  vas  !"  she 
grumbled  as  she  passed  on  in  the  direction  of 
her  gallery.  She  stopped  at  the  door  to  return 
to  Madame  Carlin  the  bonnet  and  shawl  bor- 
rowed for  the  occasion,  and  proceeded  up-stairs 
to  her  room. 

Monsieur  Wilhelm,  busy  even  in  waiting,  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  the  obstinate  glass  doors  and  fell 
mechanically  to  repeating  the  different  classifica- 
tions of  English  adverbs,  marking  them  off  on  his 
fingers  by  an  original  system  of  mnemonics.    The 


272  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1870. 

voices  in  the  yard  all  died  away,  the  different 
rooms  one  by  one  retired  into  darkness,  nothing 
but  the  prowling  cats  disturbed  the  sleeping  si- 
lence all  around.  His  thoughts  passed  on  to 
certain  subtle  deductions  by  which  he  hoped  to 
classify  lucidly  obscure  similarities  between  the 
German  and  English  languages,  looking  to  the 
ultimate  establishment  of  some  rule  for  the  regu- 
lation of  the  pronunciation  of  the  vowel  sounds 
of  both.  But  it  all  went  abruptly  out  of  his  mind 
with  the  light  behind  the  curtains,  and  he  stared 
blankly  at  the  place  v/here  she  had  shone  in  the 
room,  as  she  shone  in  his  heart.  No  mental  exer- 
cises, knowledge,  or  experience,  had  ever  prepared 
him  for  this  event !  He  almost  forgot  to  breathe. 
"  Thou  forgetful !  Thou  heartless  one  !  Thou 
..."  He  abandoned  his  conscientious  efforts 
at  English  self-communication.  "  Thou  unwom- 
anly one  !  Knowing  only  too  well  who  was  wait- 
ing outside,  thou  couldst  yet  extinguish  that  light! 
Without  pause,  without  hesitation,  nay,  without 
remorse  !"  There  came  over  him  the  violent  bit- 
terness of  disappointment  and  the  stinging  hu- 
miliation of  slight,  insult,  and  a  resentful  reversal 
of  all  the  flattering  epithets  which  only  a  moment 
before  had  fitted  his  love  so  sweetly.  "  So  !  it 
is  Sedan  still !  So  !  it  is  Bismarck  and  Napoleon 
and  Prussia  and  France  !  So  !  it  is  not  two  liv- 
ing and  loving  hearts,  but  two  inimical  nations  in 
our  bosoms  !" 


IN    THE    FRENCH   QUARTER.      1S70.  2^3 

He  jumped  from  his  seat  and  stamped  his  foot 
on  the  ground,  this  time  driving  the  meddlesome 
tin  against  the  house ;  but  the  madame  had  long 
been  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  rival  and  perpetual 
serenades  of  the  "Marseillaise"  and  "Wacht  am 
Rhein  "  of  recurring  organ-grinders  at  the  differ- 
ent street- corners  within  hearing.  He  strode 
across  the  yard,  and,  regardless  of  the  treacher- 
ous pitfalls  of  the  staircase,  mounted  boldly  to  the 
gallery,  sought  his  room,  and,  with  a  reckless  ex- 
travagance of  matches,  lighted  his  lamp. 

His  blond  hair  glistened  like  a  silver  nimbus 
around  his  red  face,  his  light  eyes  were  frankly 
infuriated.  He  broke  into  a  voluble,  passionate 
soliloquy,  getting  farther  and  farther  away  from 
his  trained  pedagogical  German  as  his  indigna- 
tion increased,  and  lapsing  deeper  and  deeper 
into  the  provincialisms  and  vulgarisms  of  expres- 
sion and  pronunciation  of  his  peasant  home. 

"  So  !  That  is  it !  She  will  not  open  the  door 
to  me  !  She  will  not  come  out  to  me !  She  does 
not  love  me  !  She  wishes  to  rebuff  me !  She  hates 
me !  That  is  enough,  she  is  French,  I  am  Prus- 
sian— to  put  out  the  light  in  that  heartless  way. 
O  thou  !  So  snail-slow  to  love,  so  lightning-quick 
to  hate !" 

He  looked  around  his  diminutive  chamber.  It 
had  been  large  enough  to  contain  such  a  world 
of  ideal  happiness ;  all  in  fragments  and  ruin  now! 
"  O  thou  female  Samson  !"     On  the  table  were 


274  •  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.       1S70. 

piled  the  fool's  -  cap  copy  books  for  correction ; 
his  nightly  task,  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  from  the 
oceans  of  Greek  and  Latin  ignorance  in  which 
God  had  willed  he  should  travel  through  life. 
And  there,  ranged  in  file  for  use,  were  the  red  ink 
and  the  blue  ink  and  the  black  ink  with  their 
symbolical  values  of  meanings,  and  the  smeared, 
rumpled  copy-books  of  Rougette  and  Blanchette, 
the  blotted  currency  with  which  he  paid  for  his 
washing. 

He  would  never  have  known  he  was  a  man  if 
Anais  had  not  grown  into  a  woman ;  grown  right 
there  before  his  eyes,  nay,  publicly,  before  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  world.  So  quietly  and  imper- 
ceptibly at  first,  as  if  to  slip  into  it  befo.re  they 
knew  it,  but  with  an  exotic  rush  at  the  last.  Into 
a  woman !  That  little  girl  running  around  in 
short  clothes  when  he  first  came  to  the  house. 
In  the  dull,  dingy,  damp  court-yard  where  plants 
were  coaxed  to  grow  and  no  flower  cared  to  bloom, 
amid  the  clothes -washing,  the  shoemaking,  the 
step-motherly  assiduities,  and  paternal  vexations, 
the  great  miracle  had  been  accomplished.  The 
transformation  of  her,  and  of  him,  too !  For 
through  the  Greek  and  Latin  bricklaying  of  his 
monotonous  life  visions  and  dreams  had  come 
to  beautify  his  future,  and  novel  thoughts  to  be- 
set and  tempt  him,  and  in  his  breast  a  spring  of 
poetry  had  been  unlocked  to  gush  and  flow  at 
the  mere  thought  of  her  name.     Napoleon  III. 


IN   THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1S70.  275 

could  have  conquered  Prussia  and  passed  it 
through  a  mill  and  not  have  eliminated  Anais 
from  his  heart ! 

And  she  had  turned  the  light  from  it  all — de- 
liberately, determinedly.  It  was  to  be  all  dark- 
ness henceforth,  and  grovelling  work.  He  was  to 
come  through  the  corridor  evening  after  evening, 
tired,  heart -hungry,  and  pass  straight  on.  .  .  . 
Their  eyes  were  no  more  to  meet.  ..."  Nein, 
und  wieder  nein !" 

He  closed  his  lips,  dragged  his  trunk  from  un- 
der the  bed,  and  with  desperate  energy  began  to 
throw  into  it  all  his  possessions,  everything,  pell- 
mell  :  books,  clothing,  copy-books,  jDens,  pencils, 
shoes.  He  stayed  his  hand  at  the  ink-bottle, 
which  he  carefully  corked  and  put  into  his 
pocket,  took  his  umbrella,  turned  out  the  lamp, 
and,  as  if  he  were  starting  out  on  his  daily 
routine,  shut  and  locked  the  door  behind 
him. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter.  Monsieur  Villem  ?" 

He  had  not  noticed  Madame  Margot,  standing 
in  the  far  corner  of  the  gallery. 

"  No,  nothing  at  all.  I  am  going  away."  He 
passed  on  as  resolutely  as  if  she  were  Anais. 

"Going  away?     Mon  Dieu  !" 

He  awed  her  with  his  far-away,  determined 
manner. 

"  But  stop  a  moment,  Monsieur  Villem  !  Your 
coffee,  your  picayune,  I  shall  return  them." 


276  IN   THE    FRENCH   QUARTER,      1870. 

Unfortunately,  she  belonged  to  the  sex  of 
Anais ;  his  tone  was  brusque  and  ill-tempered, 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?  If  you  do  not 
want  them,  throw  them  into  the  street.  I  shall 
not  touch  them  !" 

She  looked  after  him  with  her  characteristic 
helpless  docility, 

"Well,  good-bye,  Monsieur  Villem," 

"  Good-bye,  Madame  Margot,"  groping  his  way 
down  the  steps. 

"  Monsieur  Villem  !     Monsieur  Villem  !" 

He  was  nearly  to  the  landing.  Looking  up 
through  the  dark  funnel  above,  he  saw  her  bend- 
ing over  the  balusters  peering  after  him,  the  moon- 
light falling  through  the  archway  behind  her,  all 
over  her  head  and  shoulders.  Her  whisper  was 
sharp  and  distinct. 

"  Remember,  one  teaspoonful  of '  sirop  de  vio- 
lettes '  in  a  cup  of  '  tisane  de  bourrache '  boiling 
hot." 

"  Thou  dear  God  !"  Tears  came  into  his  eyes. 
The  strong  fragrance  of  the  violets  came  over  him, 
and  the  suave  consciousness  of  maternal  solici- 
tude, and  the  delicious  sensation  of  awakening 
from  pain  and  seeing  Madame  Margot  with  a 
steaming  delft  cup  in  her  hand,  standing  at  his 
bedside.  Oh,  those  wintry  nights  of  loneliness, 
homesickness,  orphanage,  and  pneumonia  ! 

"Thou  dear  God!  It  is  the  best  Thou  hast 
done,  after  all — the  mothers  !    Happily  for  us  men 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1S70.  277 

Thou  stationedst  them  all  through  life.  Thine 
own  hospitals  !  heart  sanctuaries  !"  He  ran  back 
to  embrace  his  deputy  mother,  descending  the 
steps  again  slowly. 

The  moon  had  at  last  reached  the  yard,  and 
was  poised  full  overhead,  pouring  down  generous 
largesse  of  splendor  on  the  humble  scene  below ; 
transfiguring  the  most  sordid  detail  with  heaven- 
ly light  and  loveliness.  Tire  leaf  plants  in  the 
little  gallery  gardens  glistened  and  shimmered  in 
the  heavy  September  dew,  pranked  with  a  thou- 
sand diamonds,  in  default  of  the  inert  blossoms 
that  could  not  be  caressed  out  of  their  stems. 
From  the  great,  rounded-top  central  window  of 
the  main  building,  old  Grouille's  vine  fell  in  long, 
uneven  fringes  over  the  defaced  stucco.  A  pang, 
which  in  its  acuteness  might  have  come  from  his 
delicate  chest,  shot  across  Wilhelm's  anger  at  the 
thought  of  leaving  the  old  caravansary  that  had 
housed  him  so  long;  that  had  lent  to  the  lodging 
contract  the  kindly  grace  of  hospitality,  and  so 
well  concealed  the  pecuniary  nature  of  their  rela- 
tionship. How  bravely  and  pathetically  the  build- 
ing rose  in  the  moonlight,  with  its  rooms  full  of 
tired,  sleeping,  homeless  lodgers  !  Itself  an  aris- 
tocratic outcast,  exiled  in  poverty,  trading  its  shab- 
by beauties,  its  comforts,  the  shelter  of  its  roof, 
for  a  mere  pittance.  The  skeletons  of  for- 
mer romances,  and  the  ghosts  of  former  sen- 
timent, seemed  yet  to  flit  across  the  galleries, 


278  IN   THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1870. 

look  from  the  windows,  and  lurk  in  the  dark 
corners. 

The  cathedral  clock  preluded  midnight ;  was 
every  one  asleep  .'*  Asleep  and  unconscious  of 
the  sound  of  the  hour  and  the  sight  of  his  going  ? 
Every  one  ?  No,  there  was  old  Grouille,  his  heavy 
foot  descending  step  after  step,  from  the  third- 
story  gallery,  his  candle  flaring  up  to  his  night- 
capped  head,  coming  down,  as  usual,  to  close  and 
bolt  the  heavy  porte  cochere.  Wilhelm  hastened 
through,  just  in  time  to  escape  unperceived. 

Madame  Margot,  still  on  the  gallery,  crossed 
herself  as  if  midnight  were  the  angelus,  and  lis- 
tened until  the  last  musical  stroke  died  away  in 
the  cool,  damp  air.  She  took  out  a  book  from 
under  her  sacque  and  held  it  closer  and  closer  to 
her  eyes.  The  mottled  paper  cover,  the  red  mo- 
rocco back,  and  the  lurid  gilt  title  stood  out  clear- 
ly enough,  but  the  words  that  filled  the  inside 
pages  were  all  uniformly  unintelligible.  Just  as 
she  was  on  the  point  of  making  one  out,  they  all 
seemed  to  sink  back  into  the  white  paper  pur- 
posely to  evade  her.  How  was  she  ever  to  read 
it  ?  She  turned  the  soft,  flimsy  pages  over,  one 
after  the  other,  carefully  with  her  rough  fingers, 
so  many  of  them  !  and  all  filled  with  words  !  She 
screwed  her  eyes  almost  close  ;  but  they  were 
still  too  blunt  to  see  through  the  fine,  thin  moon- 
light medium. 

She  was  determined  to  read  the  book,  to  read 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1870.  279 

it  for  herself.  That  was  the  result  of  all  her  win- 
ter's interviews  with  Madame  St.  Georges,  of  the 

Convent,  that  and  the  little  colored  picture 

of  St.  Roch  in  her  room,  and  the  candles  to  burn 
before  the  altar.  She  stood  and  thought,  hold- 
ing the  book.  She  could  not  get  out  of  the 
circle  of  what  she  had  told  Madame  St.  Georges 
and  what  Madame  St.  Georges  had  told  her. 
More  particularly  what  she  had  told  Madame  St. 
Georges,  for  that  had  excited  her  most.  It  was 
strange  the  way  she  talked  then,  she  who  never 
could  talk.  The  words  came  all  of  themselves. 
Even  now,  at  the  remembrance  of  an  expression 
or  a  tone  of  the  reverend  Mother's,  the  same 
words  rushed  again  to  her  lips,  her  heart  getting 
warm,  and  her  eyes  moist,  just  as  they  did  then. 
It  was  Madame  Carlin  who  had  done  it  all.  It 
would  never  have  come  into  Margot's  head  to 
think  of  such  a  thing,  and  she  would  never  have 
done  it  for  herself,  only  for  Monsieur  Villeminot. 
Madame  Carlin  was  a  notorious  gossip.  She  had 
talked  to  Madame  St.  Georges  about  Monsieur 
Villeminot,  she  had  induced  Margot  to  go  to  the 
convent  after  Monsieur  Villeminot  was  asleep 
evenings,  and  she  had  persuaded  Margot  to  take 
surreptitiously  all  the  volumes  from  the  mantel- 
piece, one  after  the  other,  to  show  to  the  rev- 
erend Mother ;  volumes  written  long,  long  before 
she  and  Monsieur  Villeminot  had  come  together 
in  the  sacrament  of  marriage.     And  it  was  Ma- 


280  IN   THE    FRENCH   QUARTER,      1870. 

dame  Carlin  who  had  suggested  that  Monsieur 
Villeminot  was  bhnd,  and  would  not  miss  them. 
Madame  St.  Georges  was  the  Superior  of  the  con- 
vent, wliere  for  the  last  five  years  a  succession  of 
Carlin  girls  had  been  making  their  first  commun- 
ion. It  was  well  that  ]\Ionsieur  Carlin  had  not 
lived  any  longer,  if  a  widow  was  the  only  support 
he  intended  leaving  his  children,  and  girls  the 
only  estate  provided  for  his  widow. 

FIcurs  Erotiqiies,  Les  Tropiqites  de  Pamour,  Vies 
Poetiques,  Statistiqucs  du  Cceur,  Romances  Faii- 
tastiqucs.  Proud  and  confident  Margot  had  car- 
ried them  all  across  the  consecrated  portals ;  a 
deception  'tis  true  towards  her  "patron,"  but  then 
.  .  .  the  admiration,  the  appreciation  of  the  rev- 
erend Mother,  the  homage  when  she  had  read — 
and  who  knows  what  ensuing  services  and  world- 
ly comforts  ?  And  in  New  Orleans,  her  New  Or- 
leans, who  had  more  power,  wealth,  and  influence 
than  the  Sisters  ?     Oh,  they  could  do  anything ! 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  Madame  St.  Georges 
at  the  end  of  it  all  that  very  evening,  "  have  you 
ever  read  any  of  these  books  ?" 

Read  !  Read  Monsieur  Villeminot's  books  ! 
The  idea !  She  had  hardly  dared  handle  them 
to  fetch  them  to  the  convent !  The  very  Sacred 
Host  of  literature  to  be  enshrined  on  a  mantel ! 
and  worshipped  with  vmexamining  faith  and  rev- 
erence. 

"Oh  no,  reverend  Mother  !     Not  one  of  them-'"' 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.       1870.  281 

"  It  is  well.  They  are  of  the  evil  one  !  Pollu- 
tion !  Corruption !  Infectious  with  vice  and 
crime !  Destructive  of  soul  and  body.  Moral 
and  physical  poison.  Burn  them,  burn  them ; 
destroy  them  !  Remove  the  taint  from  the  world ! 
Remove,  if  possible,  by  prayer  and  sacrifice,  the 
taint  from  the  soul  of  the  author !  It  is  such 
books  that  make  a  hell  of  earth !" 

"  Grand  Dieu,  Seigneur !"  Margot  turned  from 
her  pious  attitude  of  admiration  before  the  case 
of  scapularies  and  religious  embroideries,  and 
looked  at  the  metamorphosed,  pale,  calm  Sister  in 
supreme  amazement. 

"  Sin,  vice  !  Evil  one  !  Burn  them.  Monsieur 
Villeminot's  books !  Save  his  soul,  Monsieur  Ville- 
minot's  soul !  The  reverend  Mother  herself  must 
be  possessed." 

"  My  poor  woman,  how  came  you  to  marry  such 
a  man  ?" 

"  I  marry  him,  madame  ?  I  !  I !  I  have  that 
presumption  ?  No,  thank  God  !  He  married  me. 
Ah,  no,  madame,  you  do  not  know  him.  My 
'patron'  is  a  gentleman,  an  aristocrat,  a  'man  of 
letters !'  " 

She  drew  herself  up  in  rehearsal  of  the  scene 
just  as  she  had  done  then,  only  now  she  was  bare- 
footed and  without  the  Widow  Carlin's  bonnet 
and  shawl. 

"What  does  the  reverend  Mother  take  me  for?" 
she  had  pursued,  reproachfully.    "  His  wife  should 


282  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER,       1870. 

have  come  from  the  ladies  up  there  ;  way  up  there. 
'  Bien  en  haut !'  "  Not  meaning  the  pictured 
canonized  ladies  on  the  walls  at  which  she  was 
looking,  but  those  who  had  the  earthly  prece- 
dence of  dressing  in  silks  and  satins  and  riding 
in  carriages  to  the  opera.  "  It  is  only  misfortune 
that  drove  him  to  me,  poor  man!" 

An  inspiration  came  to  her  to  exonerate  Mon- 
sieur Villeminot,  and  in  a  humble  way  to  palli- 
ate her  own  conduct. 

"  There  was  a  poor  old  gentleman  sick  in  the 
little  corner  room  on  the  gallery  where  I  lived. 
Ma  foi !  they  called  him  old  ten  years  ago  !  He 
was  poor,  because  it  was  the  smallest  and  cheap- 
est room  in  the  whole  house.  No  one  knew  him  ; 
you  see  he  was  above  every  one  else  in  the  yard, 
a  gentleman  in  fact;  an  aristocrat,  an  'homme  de 
lettres.'  "  How  she  loved  to  pronounce  the  three 
words  !  "  They  only  know  he  was  sick  because 
he  ceased  going  out  to  work.  He  worked  in  a 
printing-office.  As  for  me,  I  never  had  seen  him 
in  my  life.  I  sewed  by  the  day  for  Piton,  at  the 
'  Bon  Marche  ;'  made  blouses  by  the  dozen.  But 
I  am  that  way,  madame,"  explanatorily.  "When 
I  hear  of  sickness,  I  cannot  keep  away,  I  sup- 
pose the  good  God  gave  me  the  vocation  to  be  a 
sick-nurse ;  I  do  not  know.  One  day  I  was  just 
passing  the  door  with  my  bundle  of  work,  and  the 
impulse  came  to  go  in  and  see  how  the  poor  old 
gentleman  was,  and  I  stayed  ;  in  fact,  I  never  left 


IN    THE    FRENXH    QUARTER.      1870.  2S3 

him  day  nor  night.  It  was  a  long  time — weeks  ; 
he  suffered  enough  !  Naturally  he  could  not  pay 
his  rent ;  how  could  he,  madame  ?  Fever,  rheu- 
matism, and  God  knows  what  all !  Old  Grouille 
was  for  putting  him  in  the  street ;  sick  !  a  gentle- 
man, an  aristocrat,  a  man  of  letters  !  Ah,  that 
was  too  much  !  Well,  the  old  miser  !  One  room 
was  enough  for  both,  thank  God !  One  day  he 
thought  he  was  getting  well,  and  the  idea  took 
him ;  he  sent  for  a  priest  and  married  me — Mon 
Dieu  !  there  has  been  misery  enough  in  this  world 
for  him  1" 

She  had  forgotten  the  book,  and  was  looking 
straight  before  her  with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  fill- 
ing out  from  memory  the  precis  of  what  she  had 
given  the  Sister,  rounding,  amplifying,  beautifying, 
and  sublimating  the  prosaic  facts  as  women  will 
do  about  their  marriage ;  counting  over  her  own 
secret  little  hoardings  of  looks,  caresses,  thrills, 
and  tremors — the  precious  private  coin  of  love. 

The  time  passed.  How  suddenly  it  had  grown 
dark !  She  looked  up  in  astonishment  for  the 
moon.  No  cloud  hid  it ;  it  was  only  slipping 
away  along  the  smooth  heavens,  drawing  stealth- 
ily its  silver  light  and  loveliness  away  from  the 
sleeping  world  as  gently  and  easily  as  a  mother 
withdraws  the  covering  from  a  sleeping  child. 
The  tall  chimney  of  the  next  house  cut  a  great 
notch  in  the  full  round  globe. 

She  was  in  despair.    How  could  she  manage  it 


284  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1S70. 

now?  In  the  daytime  she  had  her  task  of  sew- 
ing. If  the  moon  had  but  stayed  longer  she  might 
yet  have  sharpened  her  eyes  sufficiently.  The 
blind  need  no  light  or  she  might  have  had  one  in 
her  room  ;  although  there  was  one  there,  in  the 
farthest  corner  behind  the  bed,  standing  on  a 
backless  chair.  It  was  neither  hers  nor  Monsieur 
Villeminot's ;  it  was  St.  Roch's  —  Madame  St. 
George's  donation  ;  a  spiritual  disinfectant  in  be- 
half of  the  old  author  against  his  own  works  ;  ded- 
icated to  consume  its  substance  away  in  acts  of 
grace  before  the  picture  of  the  saint.  Could  she, 
dare  she  read  by  it  ? 

The  moon  disappeared  entirely  behind  the 
chimney.  St.  Roch's  candle  or  not?  She  took 
her  slippers  in  her  hand,  passed  into  the  room, 
and  stood  before  the  improvised  altar  cogitating. 
Who  would  ever  know  of  it  but  the  saint  and 
herself  ? 

"  St.  Roch,  priez  pour  moi ! 

"  St.  Roch,  ayez  pitie  de  moi ! 

"  St.  Roch,  daignez  me  secourir  ! 

"  Enfin,  he  is  a  man,  he  will  understand  !" 

There  was  not  the  same  difference  between 
him  and  other  men  as  between  the  Sisters  and 
herself.  The  transparent,  waxen  Sisters,  they 
embarrassed  her  with  their  pure  eyes  and  lips, 
their  unsoilable  hands,  their  immaculate  bodies. 
Spouses  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  any  one  could  see 
that !  not  of  craving,  ailing  humanity. 


IN   THE    FRENCH   QUARTER.      1S70.  285 

She  knelt  at  the  chair  and  repeated  her  prayers 
interrogatively,  looking  timidly  to  the  armed 
knight  for  some  sign  or  token  of  disapproval. 
Then,  an  apprehensive  glance  for  other  lurking 
presences  all  around  the  chamber,  then — a  pause 
to  listen  to  the  sleeping  respiration  of  her  hus- 
band, then  —  slowly  and  stealthily  she  put  her 
hand  behind  her,  drew  a  book  from  the  floor, 
and  opened  the  pages  of  Les  filles  de  Lucifer. 

The  wick  neither  flickered  nor  winced,  but 
shared  its  rays  fairly  and  indiscriminately  be- 
tween the  gaudy  beatitudes  of  the  saint  and  the 
chastely  printed  type  of  Monsieur  Villeminot's 
luxurious  imaginings. 

"  Les  filles  de  Lucifer !  But  who  are  the  daugh- 
ters of  Lucifer  ?"  She  tried  to  remember  if  her 
knowledge  of  womankind  had  ever  contained 
them.  Alas  !  her  schooling  had  been  of  the 
shortest,  surrounding  only  the  year  of  her  first 
communion,  distant  now  and  dim. 

"Lucifer?  his  daughters?  Mon  Dieu  !  I  did 
not  even  know  he  had  any.'' 

It  was  hard  to  read  words  she  was  unfamiliar 
with ;  still  harder  to  recognize  her  own  every-day 
intimate  expressions  in  such  service  as  was  need- 
ed to  portray  the  charms  and  characteristics  of 
the  ladies  in  question.  Whole  pages  vanished 
before  her  into  the  unintelligible,  descriptions  re- 
mained sealed  to  her  limited  understanding.  The 
open  spaces  and  short  sentences  of  dialogue,  how- 


286  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER,      1870, 

ever,  were  loop-holes  into  the  fiction  which,  in  her 
simplicity,  she  mistook  for  reality,  and  at  last  she 
comprehended. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  mon  Dieu !"  she  murmured,  from 
time  to  time,  under  her  breath.  She  bent  her 
perplexed  brows  nearer  to  the  book,  as  if  her 
heavy  eyes  were  attempting  to  deceive  her.  At 
intervals  she  raised  her  head,  clasped  her  hands, 
and  looked  in  dispassionate  appeal  to  the  minia- 
ture saint.  Once  a  blush  mounted  under  her 
thick,  sallow  skin,  and  her  heavy  fist  fell  on  the 
passage,  burying  it  from  his  sight  and  from  hers. 

"And  you,"  apostrophizing  St.  Roch,  "you  all 
up  there,  you  know  all  this,  you  see  all  this,  and 
do  nothing  !  great  God  !" 

The  cocks  in  the  neighboring  bird-store  began 
to  make  stifled  guesses  at  dawn  from  their  im- 
prisoned cages,  the  candle  was  nearing  the  sock- 
et, when  the  last  pages  were  reached  and  the 
book  fell  to  the  floor.  She  stood  up  and  held 
her  forehead  tightly.  Her  plain,  work-a-day  eyes 
burned  from  the  pandemonium  of  light  dancing 
before  them.  Perfumes  and  flowers,  music  and 
wine,  and  the  intoxicating  glamour  of  idealized 
passion  confused  and  staggered  her.  She  groped 
her  way  to  the  bed,  '  les  fiUes  de  Lucifer,'  houris, 
sultanas,  sirens,  joyous  nights,  nocturnal  days,  or- 
gies, fetes,  nudities,  rhapsodies — the  whole  satur- 
nalia of  life,  with  grotesque  lasciviousness  pass- 
ing and  repassing  in  her  brain. 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER,       1870.  287 

As  she  Stood  grasping  the  post  the  blackness 
faded  into  gray,  the  gray  Hfted  like  a  mist,  and 
the  bed  slowly  emerged  from  obscurity  —  the 
tossed-up  draperies,  the  indented  pillow  bearing 
the  white-haired  head,  with  the  long  beard  hid- 
ing the  sunken  cavity  of  the  toothless  mouth,  the 
thin  hands,  and  the  body.  The  body  that  had 
disported  youthful  passions  and  graces  for  the 
daughters  of  Lucifer — what  had  become  of  it  un- 
der the  sheets  ?     A  bare  outline  ! 

He  lay,  the  unconscious  author,  in  the  heavy 
torpid  sleep  of  the  aged,  moving  his  hands  un- 
easily, as  daylight  approached,  muttering,  mut- 
tering incessantly  in  his  own  private,  aristocratic 
language : 

"  A  gentleman,  an  aristocrat,  and  an  '  homme 
de  lettres !'  the  biographer  and  companion  of  '  les 
filles  de  Lucifer  !'  If  it  were  not  so,  why  should 
he  write  it  ? — why  write  such  lies  ?  If  it  were  so, 
God  and  St.  Roch  help  him  !"  The  past  of  St. 
Roch  himself  had  not  been  more  above  suspicion. 

She  bent  over  him  as  she  had  bent  over  his 
book — doubting,  questioning,  confused.  Only  her 
same  old  Monsieur  Villeminot  —  her  same  old, 
blind  patron.  Not  an  infirmity,  not  a  distortion, 
not  a  wrinkle  missing,  thank  God  ! 

"  Madame,  never  a  cross  word,  never  an  un- 
gentle tone,  never  a  complaint." 

Her  own  words  recurred  again,  enveloped  in 
the   same   mist  of  tears   that  had   blurred  the 


288  IN   THE    FRENCH   QUARTER,      1870. 

Mother  Superior  from  her  eyes.  "And  blind, 
hopelessly  blind."  How  clear  and  well  scrubbed 
her  own  humble,  uneducated  past  had  been  ! 

"  O  God  !  why  didst  Thou  make  men  so  ?  or 
why  didst  Thou  not  protect  Monsieur  Villeminot  ?" 

And  again  the  unforgetable  in  her  life  came  to 
her  and  held  her,  while  the  gray  light  of  dawn 
broadened  its  streaks  in  the  crack  of  the  door 
and  crept  down  the  window,  shutter  by  shutter. 

"Enfin,  God  knows  best.  She  is  the  Mother 
Superior  of  the  convent,  I  only  Margot !  Hus- 
band for  husband.  He  has  given  her  the  Church  ; 
but  to  me  He  has  given  Monsieur  Villeminot."  .  .  . 

Absent-mindedly,  she  made  and  carried  the 
habitual  cup  of  morning  coffee  to  Monsieur  Vil- 
lem's  room.  It  was  not  until  after  repeated 
knocks  on  the  door  that  she  realized  his  de- 
parture of  the  night  before.  The  little  flower- 
maker  was  just  going  out  to  her  work,  "  tiree 
a  quatre  epingles,"  as  usual.  A  suspicious  char- 
acter she  was,  in  her  tight-fitting,  flounced  dress- 
es, kid  gloves,  and  diminutive  capote,  tied  co- 
quettishly  under  her  chin  with  bright  ribbon. 

"  Ha,  the  lazy  one  !     Still  asleep  !" 

"  Mon  Dieu  !"  answered  Margot,  with  a  sigh  ; 
"he  is  not  there  at  all." 

The  flower -maker's  malicious  eyes  tvt^inkled 
knowingly  as  she  minced  out : 

"  Ah,  le  brigand !  but  that  is  the  way  with 
young  men  !" 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER,      1S70.  289 

"  He  has  gone  away,  mademoiselle,  forever." 

"Gone  away  forever!     But  where?  but  why?" 

Margot's  shrug  of  the  shoulder  left  the  answer 
to  the  inventive  powers  of  the  other  one. 

"Tant  mieux !"  shrugging  her  shoulders  also; 
"  one  enemy  less  here ;  one  more  to  kill  over 
there." 

There  was  a  general  excitement  in  the  yard 
among  the  lodgers  over  the  news ;  and  the  sat- 
isfactory feeling  of  elation  that  France  had  been 
so  promptly  vindicated  by  them  continued  until 
old  Grouille  made  his  appearance  with  his  greasy 
bunch  of  pass-keys,  and  marched  lugubriously 
up-stairs,  followed  by  a  porter. 

"  Now,  if  the  steps  would  crack  under  him — 
hein  !"  the  women  whispered  ;  "  that  would  be 
a  judgment !" 

Prussia  and  the  little  black  trunk  were  incon- 
tinently carried  ignominiously  out  of  the  corri- 
dor, pursued  by  witticisms  and  patriotic  jests, 
which  culminated  in  boisterous  hilarity  as  the  ban- 
dy-legged, staggering  porter  finally  disappeared, 
Anais,  returning  from  early  mass,  knocked  against 
him  as  he  stepped  onto  the  banquette.  It  was 
only  Wilhelm  Mtiller,  painted  in  white  letters  on 
the  trunk,  that  she  saw,  not  Prussia ;  and  the 
tender  sentiments  of  repentance  which  were  now 
making  her  heart  eloquent  with  contrition  took 
one  bound  into  remorse  —  dumb,  agonized  re- 
morse. Margot  waylaid  the  man  at  the  corner, 
19 


ago  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER,      1870. 

and  detained  him  until  a  message  translated  into 
his  native  Creole  had  been  reiterated  into  intelli- 
gible conveyance  on  his  part. 

The  war  travelled  all  the  way  down  the  street 
from  Canal  to  Esplanade ;  zigzagging  like  a 
streak  of  lightning  from  banquette  to  banquette, 
to  separate  friends  from  foes  in  all  the  little 
shops  and  industries,  neighbors  for  decades ; 
playing  havoc  with  trade,  blockading  sociability, 
and  laying  waste  whole  quarters  of  human  affecT 
tions.  From  every  German  signboard  victorious 
Prussian  armies  seemed  contemptuously  to  issue 
with  cannon,  flags,  sabres,  and  insults,  to  besiege 
an  opposite  or  proximate  French  heart,  which 
was  daily  fighting,  starving,  freezing,  despair- 
ing, mutinying,  with  Paris  enshrined  in  its  very 
core. 

In  "  La  Rose  de  France  "  misfits  accumulated 
beyond  the  capacity  of  the  show-window ;  orders 
diminished  below  comparison  with  any  previous 
era,  and  Anais,  to  her  stepmother's  vituperative 
indignation,  was  discovering  a  vocation  for  the 
cloister.  The  world  had  become  manless  for 
her ;  all  her  growing  and  blooming,  dressing  and 
coquetting  useless  and  distasteful;  her  dreams, 
plans,  and  musings  out  of  place  and  inappropri- 
ate. She  had  to  learn  a  different  language  from 
the  Uioonbeams  and  flowers.  Her  ears  misinter- 
preted the  strains  of  music.  Her  heart  bounded 
and  started  on  false  rcents  and  trails.     Her  lamp 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.       1S70.  29I 

burned  long  and  bright  behind  the  curtains.  How 
often  the  doors  opened  to  illusory  taps  ! 

The  news  from  France  ?  What  were  battles 
and  invasions  ?  She,  she  alone,  could  tell  what 
real  misfortune,  real  pain,  were.  The  phenom- 
enon was  that  life  could  continue  at  all  under 
the  circumstances  ;  that  the  sun  could  shine,  and 
the  people  pass  in  front  of  the  shop  day  after  day, 
just  the  same.  Yes,  it  was  evidently  God's  will 
to  make  a  nun  of  her.  .  .  .  Was  there,  could  there 
be,  a  greater  tragedy  than  hers  in  His  world, 
among  His  people .' 

Either  France  or  the  shoe  business  had  to  suf- 
fer, and  Monsieur  Renaudiere  was  too  good  a 
patriot  to  hesitate  in  such  an  emergency  between 
his  workroom  and  Jacquet's  "  Quincaillerie," 
where  the  war  was  being  diligently  supervised 
and  the  Government  vigorously  reconstructed  in 
nightly  seances  of  midnight  duration. 

As  Napoleon  waned,  Jacquet  waxed,  and  his 
cottage  rose  in  direct  importance  with  the  ad- 
versities of  France.  Trade  was  never  brisker. 
The  high-pointed  tile  roof  over  his  shop  seemed 
hardly  able  to  hold  down  the  plethora  of  wares 
underneath.  The  front  room  was  in  a  constant 
state  of  overflow  into  the  back  room,  which  in 
turn  disburdened  itself  onto  the  unpaved  yard 
in  the  rear,  where  were  huddled  together  old  cart- 
wheels, pi-imitive  sugar  boilers,  millstones,  yellow 
water  jars  (retired  into  desuetude  by  increasing 


292  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.       187O. 

use  of  cisterns),  chains,  cannon-balls,  and  rusty 
heaps  of  mingled  odds  and  ends,  leaving  barely 
space  enough  in  the  centre  for  a  half-dozen 
chairs  to  mortise  themselves  comfortably  in  the 
soft  earth,  under  the  reverberative  periods  of 
Jacquet's  hyperbolical  eloquence.  Here,  evening 
after  evening,  under  sunsets,  twilights,  moons  and 
star  risings,  royalty  had  been  guillotined,  relig- 
ion suppressed,  priests  extirpated,  palaces  and 
churches  fired,  dejected  imperialists  coerced  into 
red-republican  acquiescence  by  the  fiery  iron-mon- 
ger, and  "la  patrie  Madonne,"  coifed  and  cos- 
tumed for  the  third  representation  of  that  drama, 
whose  fifth  act  this  time,  according  to  the  author, 
was  to  be  a  permanent  denouement  of  victory 
and  peace.  But  constant  defeat  and  the  pro- 
tracted siege  had  driven  the  little  coterie  into  de- 
spair and  into  the  house,  as  winter  succeeded  to 
autumn,  and  it  was  finally  in  the  dimly-lighted 
back  room,  surrounded  by  the  shadowy  forms  of 
Jacquet's  favorite  metal,  a  prey  to  sinister  noises 
and  fancies,  listeners  to  the  stolid  rejoicings  of 
foes  outside  and  the  indifferent  gayety  of  neutrals, 
that  the  compatriots  suffered  the  full  bitterness 
of  their  expatriation  and  humiliation.  At  the  end 
of  hope  and  patience,  on  the  point  of  reacting 
vindictively  into  royalism,  they  sat  one  night, 
alas  !  and  waited  for  the  last  news  from  Paris 
the  terms  of  surrender. 

"  It  is  with  a  sword  in  the  hand  of  a  republic." 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.       1S70.  293 

The  word  was,  as  usual  with  Jacquet,  misfortune  ; 
instead  of  silencing  his  tongue,  appearing  to  li- 
cense it. 

"  Boutique  !"     (Shop  !) 

An  old  carafe  to  be  sold,  or  a  broken  cup  to  be 
matched,  or  five  cents  of  nails  to  be  bought  on  time, 
or  the  shiftless  Carlins  redeeming  or  pawning  nec- 
essary or  useless  flat-irons ;  and  the  Government 
had  to  be  suspended,  and  the  priests  allowed  a 
breathing-spell  until,  not  satisfaction  (for  that,  even 
in  a  second-hand  condition,  was  not  to  be  found 
in  Jacquet's  shop),  but  agreement  was  arrived  at. 

"  It  is  iron,  *  le  fer,  le  fer,  le  fer,'  "  beating  down 
as  he  spoke  on  a  newly-polished  stove. 

"  Shop  !" 

"  Au  diable  la  pratique  !" 

And  they  all  listened  listlessly  to  a  tedious  rig- 
marole of  chaffering  over  a  coffee-pot. 

"  And  that  is  the  last  price.  Monsieur  Jacquet  ?" 

"All  that  can  be  called  'last  price.'  " 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  how  dear  these  things  are  !" 

"  Cro  nom  !  if  I  gave  it  to  you  for  nothing  you 
would  still  call  it  dear,  you  women  !"  and  he  com- 
menced closing  and  bolting  his  shutters,  for  it 
was  ringing  nine  o'clock. 

"  It  is  not  that  it  is  dear,  Monsieur  Jacquet, 
but  money  is  so  scarce."  The  voice  sounded  of 
an  empty  purse. 

"  There  is  no  law  to  compel  you  to  buy  a  cof- 
fee-pot, saperlotte  !" 


294  IN    THE    FRENCH   QUARTER.      1S70. 

"  And  times  are  hard,  mon  Dieu,  harder  than 
in  our  war !" 

"  Si !  the  times  are  hard,  but  no  harder  for  you 
than  for  me,  par  example  !" 

"Well,  it's  no  use;  I  had  better  have  the  old 
one  mended.     Good-night,  Monsieur  Jacquet." 

"  Good-night,  Madame  Margot," 

His  voice  was  acrimonious  and  disgusted 
enough ;  he  bolted  the  door  noisily  against  the 
intrusion  of  any  more  customers. 

"  Va-t-en,  imbecile  !  idiote  de  femme  !  dear, 
dear,  dear !"  whining  in  imitation  of  her  tones. 
"  She  could  not  tell  the  truth  and  say  she  had 
no  money ;  the  truth  from  women  ;  ha,  bonjour  ! 
I  guarantee  she  had  not  a  picayune  in  her  pock- 
et. Ah,  good  God  !  what  fools  women  are  !  He 
knew  what  He  was  about  when  He  made  them 
so.  But  it  is  not  the  men  Vv'ho  should  complain 
of  it,  nor  her  old  patron —  Hein,  Madame  Mar- 
got !  Madame  Margot!" 

She  was  nearly  through  the  corridor,  but  his 
voice  arrested  her  in  time  and  brought  her  back. 

"  But  come  in.  Don't  be  a  fool.  What  are 
you  afraid  of  ?  Here,  for  God's  sake,  take  it  for 
a  picayune,  on  time,  anything,  only  don't  talk  any 
more  about  it.  Here,  go  make  the  '  patron  '  his 
coffee ;  bon  soir !  En — fin,"  as  he  sharply  shut 
the  door  behind  her.  "  1-oor  wretch,  if  he  has  the 
coffee  to  make.  He  is  a  Frenchman  also,  her 
'patron.'     He  will  not  want  for  misery  and  dis- 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1S70.  295 

grace  to-morrow  morning  !  Blind  and  infirm — it 
is  very  little,  after  all,  a  coffee-pot !  A  gentleman, 
an  aristocrat,  and  a  man  of  letters,  too,  according 
to  that  great  cow  of  a  Widow  Carlin  and  her  two 
heifer  daughters.  Pests  of  the  earth,  with  their 
flat-irons!  Oui,  messieurs,"  returning  to  the 
back  door,  "it  will  come  hard  upon  him;  he 
dates  from  the  time  of  the  great  Napoleon  when 
there  was  a  Franca  to  gurround  (g-r-r-r-ound) 
the  Prussians  under  her  heel.  Ha !  The  time 
will  come  again  !  We  must  begin  again  as  they 
did.  ...  As  I  was  saying,  the  republic.  .  .  .  But 
what  is  the  matter  ?     You  are  all  going  ?" 

He  had  been  too  busy  with  his  own  soliloquy 
to  hear  the  conference  of  the  others.  Old  Frejus 
had  been,  the  orator  this  time;  he  who  had  sat 
obstinately  silent  during  the  autumn  and  winter 
debates  of  his  compatriots,  from  whom  neither 
guillotines  nor  petroleum  could  evoke  more  than 
increasingly  melancholy  shakes  of  the  head  and 
increasingly  dejected  arrangements  of  feature, 
whose  tongue  had  refused  to  participate  even  in 
the  allowably  desperate  prophecies  and  surmises 
of  the  hour;  he  had  found  a  text  in  the  dialogue 
between  Margot  and  Jacquet  for  a  sermon,  and 
the  language — poor  old  silent  Frejus  ! — of  a  Do- 
minican in  Passion  Week  to  deliver  it  in.  Not 
that  his  friends,  being  Frenchmen,  needed  more 
than  a  suggestion  to  kindle  their  hearts  into  gen- 
erosity and  sympathy.     He  buttoned  up  his  over- 


296  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1S70. 

coat  and  tied  a  bandanna  over  his  head,  still  talk- 
ing along  in  his  tearful,  complaining  tone,  as  if 
his  tongue  could  not  cease  all  at  once  the  unac- 
customed impetus  and  motion  ;  his  words  falling 
through  the  red  and  yellow  folds,  being  twisted 
around  mouth  and  neck. 

"  Humanity !  Christianity !  A  good,  pious 
woman  !  In  poverty  !  No  friends  !  Compan- 
ions !  All  Frenchmen  alike !  Conquered  by 
Prussians  !  Blind  ;  alone  ;  infirm  !  \\^eather  so 
cold  !  A  gentleman  ;  an  aristocrat ;  a  man  of  let- 
ters !  Poor  woman,  no  money,  no  coffee  !  And  we 
sitting  here  spouting !  spouting !  spouting  !  with 
— he,  my  Saviour  ! — full  stomachs  and  warm  bod- 
ies— we  let  Frenchmen  die  of  hunger  and  want ! 
The  Prussians  kill  them.  We  are  more  brutal 
than  Prussians." 

It  was  a  short  speech,  but  the  longest  he  had 
ever  made  in  his  life ;  and  it  was  more  effective 
than  any  of  Jacquet's  or  Renaudiere's,  for  it  left 
no  minority.  "  En  avant,  mes  amis  !"  command- 
ed Jacquet.  All  the  overcoats  were  buttoned  up, 
all  the  handkerchiefs  knotted,  and  all  stood  out- 
side the  door  and  shivered  unanimously,  while 
Jacquet  hunted  for  the  key-hole  with  his  pass- 
key in  a  darkness  that  seemed  assembled  C7i 
masse  to  quell  forever  the  impertinent  efforts  of 
gas.  They  crossed  the  street,  slipped  against 
and  stumbled  over  each  other  in  the  corridor, 
traversed  the  yard,  and  directed  their  steps  to  the 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.       1870.  297 

stair-way,  each  one  silently  conning  some  Gal- 
licism of  respectful  homage  and  love.  Renau- 
diere  held  back.  Frejus  absent-mindedly  or  un- 
selfishly mounted  the  rotten  stairs  first,  and  was 
miraculously  followed  in  safety  by  all  the  rest. 

The  aroused  Carlins  peeped  through  their  door 
at  the  astounding  deputation  filing  past,  and  all, 
old  and  young,  followed  on  tiptoe  after ;  but  they 
were  not  half-way  up  the  stairs  and  darkness  be- 
fore they  were  overtaken  and  startled  into  sup- 
pressed screams  and  ejaculations  by  the  light- 
shod  Anais,  who,  also  peeping,  was  also  driven  by 
curiosity  into  following  the  procession. 

Fre'jus  discreetly  tapped,  then  waited  a  while, 
then  softly  opened  the  battened  doors,  and  all  the 
heads  came  together  to  look  through  the  glass 
casement  inside.  Oh,  the  battle  of  Sedan  had 
been  followed  by  defeat,  bloodshed,  and  humilia- 
tion enough  to  have  cracked  the  panes  as  the 
concentrated  hatred  of  their  gaze  fell  on  what 
they  had  accustomed  themselves  to  regard  as 
the  physiognomical  expression  of  Prussian  ava- 
rice, cruelty,  and  oppression — the  mild  face  of 
INIonsieur  Wilhelm  Miiller.  Rage  at  the  sight  of 
him  swept  like  a  blast  all  the  soft  impulses  away 
from  their  hearts  and  the  pretty  speeches  a-mak- 
ing  in  their  brain. 

"  He  had  not  gone  away,  then,  the  liar  !  He  was 
not  fighting  with  his  countrymen,  the  coward  ! 
He  had  remained  rather,  vilely  to  creep  and  spy 


29S  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER,      1870. 

among  the  unfortunate  French  under  the  cover 
of  darkness !  Bribing  and  corrupting  poverty- 
pinched  French  patriots  into  disgraceful  social 
intercourse  !  That  was  like  a  Prussian.  Sitting, 
laughing  in  his  sleeve  at  them !  After  they  had 
put  him  out ;  cast  him  and  his  trunk  into  the 
street,  he  was  mocking  them  !  Despising  them  ! 
Ah,  they  would  show  him  !  They  might  be  beat- 
en in  France  ;  but  here  in  America,  in  New  Or- 
leans, there  was  still  something  to  be  said,  to  be 
done.  Did  he  take  them  for  children  ?  For  ba- 
bies ?" 

Serenely  unaware  of  the  muffled  heads,  red 
noses,  and  vindictive  whispers  of  his  mortal  en- 
emies outside,  the  young  German  seemed  in  the 
dim  room  to  be  pursuing  an  amusing,  if  hesitat- 
ing, narrative  ;  reading  from  time  to  time  from 
the  telegraphic  columns  of  a  newspaper  he  held 
in  his  hand.  Renaudiere  alone  could  catch  the 
drift  of  it,  for  he,  sacrificing  vision  to  hearing,  was 
bent  over,  holding  an  uncovered  ear  against  the 
key-hole. 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  What  is  it .'"'  demanded  Jac- 
quet.     "  What  lies  ?     What  infamies  ?" 

"  Sacre  !"  A  laugh,  actually  a  laugh  through 
the  orifice,  to  be  reported  by  Renaudiere.  A 
pleased,  easy,  complacent  laugh  by  the  old  man 
in  the  chair  to  stick  and  quiver  in  their  hearts. 
A  laugh  by  a  Frenchman,  at  this  fatal  hour,  and 
before  a  Prussian  ! 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.       1S70.  299 

"  He  reads  telegrams,"  continued  Renaudiere, 
and  then  opened  his  lips  for  no  more  items ;  for, 
though  he  glued  his  ear  to  the  key-hole,  he  knew 
that  the  words  which  he  heard  could  only  have 
emanated  from  his  own  diseased  brain.  "  French 
triumphs — Prussian  defeats — despair  of  besiegers 
— courage  and  fortitude  of  besieged.  In  all  prob- 
ability peace  with  glory  and  success  to  France ! 
Paris  .  .  ." 

Was  he  (Renaudiere)  crazy,  or  they  ? 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  Prussians  repulsed  again  !  Still 
holding  their  own  ?  Ah,  my  brave  Frenchmen, 
my  brave  Parisians.  My  polished  lions  !  Star- 
vation, shells,  snow,  prrut !"  A  cracked  sound  of 
his  youthful  expression  of  contempt.  "  They  are 
fighting  now  for  Paris,  men  ami,  for  no  govern- 
ment, no  man,  but  for  Paris  !  Ah,  you  don't 
know  v*hat  that  means!  I  do,  I  do  !  it  will  make 
them  indestructible.  Paris  surrender?"  He  strove, 
but  could  not  hide  the  tremulous  vacillation  from 
confidence  to  appi^ehension.  The  others  merely 
stared  from  the  outside,  waiting  for  some  event 
to  enlighten  them  or  prompt  future  action. 

Margot,  alas,  for  the  easy  descent  of  it!  was 
kneeling  on  the  floor  before  the  picture  of  St.  Roch, 
but  only  to  hold  the  new  coffee-pot  over  the  flame 
of  the  votive  candle.  Her  face  v/as  turned  away 
from  her  task  towards  Monsieur  Wilhelm,  whom 
she  was  prompting  by  nods  and  signs  and  smiles 
of  encouragement.     The  flames  played  over  the 


300  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1S70. 

sides  of  the  unsteady  tin,  blackening  and  smoking 
it,  and  sending  little  waves  of  shadow  over  the 
whitewashed  walls.  The  men  outside  nudged 
each  other  as  the  red  and  gilt  backs  of  the  books 
lightened  and  darkened  on  the  mantel, 

"  Look  !  his  books  !  it's  true,  a  famous  author ; 
a  man  of  letters." 

"  Paris  surrender  !  Paris  surrender  !"  Tlie 
shrill  voice  came  through  the  key-hole  to  Re- 
naudiere.  "  Never  !  Why,  her  paving-stones  are 
the  very  bone,  her  sewers  the  veins,  of  the  French 
people.  Surrender  to  Prussians  !  Before  the  last 
soldier,  the  last  man,  the  last  woman,  the  last 
gamins  from  the  streets  had  perished  in  her  de- 
fence ?  Before  the  generale  had  been  beaten 
throughout  the  whole  world  and  the  last  French 
heart  securely  sleeping  under  foreign  flags  roused.-' 
Never  !  never  !  To  arms  !  To  arms  !  Her  cry 
would  go  from  city  to  hamlet,  from  hamlet  to 
family,  from  the  family  to  the  distant  wandering 
sons  in  mountains,  swamps,  and  prairies.  Country 
in  danger,  my  children  !  To  arms  !  To  arms  ! 
Who — who  of  us  would  hold  back  ?     On  !     On  !" 

He  was  hidden  by  the  cushions.  They  on  the 
outside  could  hear  nothing,  but  they  could  see 
his  fingers  creep  along  his  chair.  His  white 
head  came  into  view  bent  forward  in  blind  in- 
tensity of  expression,  his  thin,  long  beard  agitated 
by  the  excited  utterances. 

"  Paris  in  danger  !     To  the  rescue !    All !  all ! — 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.       1S70.  301 

Ranks,  Politics,  Religions,  Oriflammcs,  Fleurs- 
de-lis,  Tricolor  !  My  country  !  We  come  !  We 
come !'' 

The  gaunt  form  sprang  electrified  from  the 
chair,  and  made  a  step  forward,  an  extended 
hand  grasping  an  imaginary  banner,  the  faded 
dressing-gown  falling  (as  if  to  free  him  of  in- 
firmity and  disease)  from  the  bent  shoulders. 

"  We  come  !     Yes  !     All !  all !" 

He  swayed,  tottered,  and  fell  like  a  clod  back 
into  his  cushions. 

They  threw  open  the  doors  and  rushed  in, 
trampling  over  the  prostrate  form  of  Renaudiere. 
The  coffee-pot  fell  from  Margot's  hands,  upset- 
ting the  candle  and  splashing  the  coffee  over  the 
floor,  Margot,  INIonsieur  Wilhelm,  but,  most  vo- 
ciferously, Renaudiere,  interposed,  and  before  a 
word  could  be  uttered  by  the  uninitiated,  excited 
ones,  they  all  stood  committed  to  the  suppositi- 
tious triumphs  of  France,  the  supposititious  suc- 
cessful defence  of  Paris,  and  were  made  by  signs 
the  confidants  of  Monsieur  Wilhelm's  nightly 
stolen  visits,  his  generosity,  his  "  bonte  divine," 
his  un-Prussian  good-will.  Jacquet  lighted  the 
candle  and  placed  it  with  a  bow  of  national  po- 
liteness under  the  saint  again,  and  then  Margot 
shoved  them  all  out  into  the  darkness  and  cold 
of  the  gallery,  entangled  with  Carlins,  incoherent 
of  speech,  and  distorted  from  prolonged  shrugs  of 
the  shoulder. 


302  IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1870. 

"  Mais,  que  diable  !  that  woman,  eh,  she  is 
never  going  to  allow  Paris  to  be  taken,"  grum- 
bled Jacquet. 

Renaudiere,  after  several  mistakes  in  the  ob- 
scurity, finally  seized  the  right  man,  Monsieur 
Wilhelm,  by  both  hands. 

"  Mon  ami,  you  are  great,  you  are  noble  ;  don't 
say  a  word,  I  understand,  I  appreciate.  As  a 
Frenchman,  you  see,  I  must  detest  you  ;  as  a 
man,"  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  "  I  embrace 
you." 

Old  Fre'jus  had  not  been  missed  until  he  re- 
appeared with  arms  filled  :  crucifixes,  beads,  pict- 
ures, and  candles,  a  complete  installation  from 
his  show-case  for  the  proper,  fitting  service  of  the 
knightly,  handsome  St.  Roch. 

And  she,  who  waiting  in  despair  for  one  more 
chance,  one  more  tap  on  her  window,  thought 
herself  drifting  towards  the  convent  ?  There 
was  no  m.oon  to  gild  the  heavens  above  her,  and 
the  water  dripped  into  icicles  from  the  cistern  be- 
hind her,  but  her  vigil  was  neither  long  nor  cold, 
although  the  cathedral  clock  was  striking  mid- 
night before  she  caught  him  slipping  past  into 
the  corridor  —  his  nightly  martyrdom,  slipping 
past  love  and  happiness,  into  a  cold,  deserted, 
denuded  world. 

She  caught  and  held  him — "  Wilhelm  !"  And 
it  was  as  if  there  had  never  been  war  or  discord 
in  the  world  ;  as  if,  indeed,  there  had  never  been 


IN    THE    FRENCH    QUARTER.      1S70.  303 

a  world  but  for  them,  for  that  moment.  Only  a 
moment,  but  it  was  sufficient — only  a  moment, 
because  old  Grouille  was  promptitude  itself  in 
bolting  and  barring  the  gate  of  the  lodging-house 
at  midnight. 


THE   END. 


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A  gallery  of  striking  studies  in  the  humblest  quarters  of  American 
country  life.  No  one  has  dealt  with  this  kind  of  life  better  than  Miss 
Wilkins.  Nowhere  are  there  to  be  found  such  faithful,  delicately  drawn, 
sympathetic,  tenderly  humorous  pictures. — If.  Y.  Tribune. 

The  charm  of  Miss  Wilkins's  stories  is  in  her  intimate  acquaintance 
and  comprehension  of  humble  life,  and  the  sweet  human  interest  sho 
feels  and  makes  her  readers  partake  of,  in  the  simple,  common,  homely 
people  she  draws. — Springfield  Reptiblican. 

There  is  no  attempt  at  fine  writing  or  structural  effect,  but  the  tender 
treatment  of  the  sympathie.s,  emotions,  and  passions  of  no  very  extraor- 
dinary people  gives  to  these  little  stories  a  pathos  and  human  feeling  quite 
their  own. — N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

The  author  has  given  us  studies  from  real  life  which  must  be  the  result 
of  a  lifetime  of  patient,  sympathetic  observation.  ...  No  one  has  done 
the  same  kind  of  work  so  lovingly  and  so  wqU.— Christian  Register, 
Boston.  

Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

SSS'The  above  works  sent  by  mail,  postage,  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the 
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By   AMELIE    rives. 

A  BROTHER  TO  DRAGONS,  and  Other  Old-time 
Tales.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Extra,  |1  00. 

VIRGINIA    OF    VIRGINIA.      A  Story.      Illustrated. 
Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Extra,  $1  00. 


One  is  permitted  to  discover  qualities  of  niiud  and  ii  proficiency  and 
capacity  iu  art  from  which  something  new  and  distinctively  the  work 
of  genius  may  be  anticipated  in  American  literature. — Boston  Olobe. 

Miss  Rives  has  imagination,  breadth,  and  a  daring  and  courage 
oftenest  spoken  of  as  masculine.  Moreover,  she  is  exquisitely  poet- 
ical, and  her  ideals,  with  all  the  mishaps  of  her  delineations,  are  of  an 
exalted  order X  Y.  Star. 

It  was  little  more  than  two  years  ago  that  Miss  Kives  made  her  first 
literary  conquest,  a  conquest  so  complete  and  astonisliing  as  at  once 
to  give  her  fame.  How  well  she  has  sustained  and  added  to  the  repu- 
tation she  so  suddenly  won,  we  all  know,  and  the  permanency  of  that 
reputation  demonstrates  conclusively  that  her  success  did  not  depend 
upon  the  lucky  striking  of  a  popular  fancy,  but  that  it  rests  upon  en- 
during qualities  that  are  developing  more  and  more  richly  year  by 
year.— Hichmoiid  State. 

It  is  evident  that  the  author  has  imagination  in  an  unusual  degree, 
much  strength  of  expression,  and  skill  iu  delineating  character.— i)08- 
ton  Jotirnal. 

There  are  few  young  writers  who  begin  a  promising  career  with  so 
much  spontaneity  and  charm  of  expression  as  is  displayed  by  Miss 
Rives. — Literary  World,  boston. 

The  trait  which  the  author  seems  to  take  the  most  pleasure  in  de- 
picting is  the  passionate  loyalty  of  a  girl  to  her  lover  or  of  a  young 
wife  to  her  husband,  and  her  portrayal  of  this  trait  has  feeling,  and  is 
set  off  by  an  unconventional  style  and  brisk  movement.— 3Vie  Book 
Buyer,  N.  Y. 

There  is  such  a  wealth  of  imagination,  such  an  exuberance  of  strik- 
ing language  iu  the  productions  of  this  author,  as  to  attract  and  hold 
the  reader. — Toledo  Blade. 

Miss  Rives  is  essentially  a  teller  of  love  stories,  and  relates  them 
with  such  simple,  straightforward  grace  that  she  at  once  captures  the 
sympathy  and  interest  of  the  reader.  .  .  .  There  is  a  freshness  of  feeling 
and  a  mingling  of  pathos  and  humor  which  are  simply  delicious.— iN'cio 
London  Telegraph. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 
'  IlARPitK  &  Brotiikks  will  scud  either  of  the  above  works  by  mail, 

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receipt  of  the  price. 


CHAELES  DUDLEY  WAENER. 

AS  WE  WERE  SAYING.     With  Portrait,  and  Illustrated  by 
n.W.  McViCKAR  and  Others.   IGmo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $1  00. 

So  dainty  and  delightsome  a  little  booli  may  it  be  everybody's  good 
hap  to  yiossess. —Fvanijelist,  N.  Y. 

OUR    ITALY.      Illustrated.      8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  Uncut 
Edges  and  Gilt  Top,  $2  50. 

In  tliis  book  are  a  little  history,  a  little  property,  a  few  fascinating 
statistics,  many  interesting  facts,  mncli  practical  suggestion,  and 
abundant  humor  and  charm EoangclUt,  N.  Y. 

A  LITTLE   JOURNEY  IN   THE  WORLD.     A  Novel.     Post 
8vo,  Half  Leather,  $1  50. 

The  vigor  and  vividness  of  the  tale  and  its  sustained  interest  are  not 
Its  only  or  its  chief  merits.  It  is  a  study  of  American  life  of  to-dny, 
po.esessed  witli  shrewd  insight  and  fidelity. — Geougb  Wii.i.iam  Curtis. 

A  powerful  picture  of  that  phase  of  modern  life  in  which  unscrupu- 
lously acquired  capital  is  the  chief  agent. — Boston  Post. 

STUDIES  IN  THE  SOUTH  AND  WEST,  with  Comments  on 
Canada.     Post  8vo,  Half  Leather,  $1  7u. 

Perhaps  the  most  accurate  and  graphic  account  of  these  portions  of 
the  country  that  has  appeared,  taken  all  in  all.  ...  A  book  most 
charming— a  book  that  no  American  can  fail  to  enjoy,  appreciate,  aud 
highly  prize.— ZJoston  Traveller. 

THEIR  PILGRIMAGE.     Richly  Illustrated  by  C.  S.  Reiniiart. 
Post  Svo,  Half  Leather,  $2  00. 

Mr.  Warner's  pen-pictures  of  the  characters  typical  of  each  resort, 
of  the  manner  of  life  followed  at  each,  of  the  humor  and  absurdities 
peculiar  to  Saratoga,  or  Newport,  or  Bar  Harbor,  as  the  case  may  be, 
are  as  good-natured  as  they  are  clever.  The  satire,  when  there  is  any, 
is  of  the  mildest,  and  the  general  tone  is  that  of  one  glad  to  look  on 
the  brightest  side  of  the  cheerful,  pleasure-seeking  world  with  which 
he  i!.-\m"\QS.— Christian  Union,  N.  Y. 


Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  Y'oiik. 

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By  CONSTANCE  F.  WOOLSOK 

JUPITER  LIGHTS.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
EAST  ANGELS.     16iuo,  Clotli,  $1  25. 
ANNE.     Illustrated.     IGmo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 
FOR  THE  MAJOR.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
CASTLE  NOWHERE.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 
RODMAN  THE  KEEPER.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 


There  is  a  certain  bright  cheerfulness  in  Miss  Woolson's  writing 
which  invests  all  her  characters  with  lovable  qualities.— Jciojs/t  Advo- 
cate, N.  Y. 

Miss  Woolsou  is  among  our  few  successful  writers  of  interesting 
magazine  stories,  and  her  skill  and  power  are  perceptible  in  the  de- 
lineation of  her  heroines  no  less  than  in  the  suggestive  pictures  of 
local  \Uc.— Jewish  Mcsse7igcr,  N.  Y. 

Constance  Fcnimore  Woolson  may  easily  become  the  novelist  lau- 
reate.— Boston  Globe. 

Miss  Woolson  has  a  graceful  fancy,  a  ready  wit,  a  polished  style,  and 
conspicuous  dramatic  power  ;  while  her  skill  in  the  development  of  a 
story  is  very  remarkable. — London  Life. 

Miss  Woolson  never  once  follows  the  beaten  track  of  the  orthodox 
novelist,  but  strikes  a  new  and  richly-loaded  vein,  which  so  far  is  all 
her  own  ;  and  thus  we  feel,  on  reading  one  of  her  works,  a  fresh  sen- 
sation, and  we  put  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  to  think  our  pleasant 
task  of  reading  it  is  finished.  The  author's  lines  must  have  fallen  to 
her  in  very  pleasant  places ;  or  she  has,  perhaps,  within  herself  the 
wealth  of  womanly  love  and  tenderness  she  pours  so  freely  into  all 
she  writes.  Such  books  as  hers  do  much  to  elevate  the  moral  tone  of 
the  day— a  quality  sadly  wanting  in  novels  of  the  lime.— WhitdtaU 
Review,  London. 

Published  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  Yokk. 

fl®^  The  above  works  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the 
United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


SEVEN   DREAMERS. 

A  Collection  of  Seven  Stories.  By  Annie  Trumbull 
Slosson.  pp.  286.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental, 
$1  25. 

A  charming  collection  of  character  sketches  and  stories 
— humorous,  pathetic,  and  romantic— of  New  England 
country  life.  The  volume  includes  "How  Faith  Came 
and  Went,"  "Botany  Bay,"  "Aunt  Randj^"  "Fishin' 
Jimmy,"  " Butterneggs,"  "Deacon  Pheby's  Selfish  Nat- 
ur',"  and  "  A  Speakin'  Ghost." 


They  are  of  the  best  sort  of  "  dialect "  stories,  full  of  humor 
and  quaint  conceits.  Gathered  in  a  volume,  with  a  frontispiece 
which  is  a  wonderful  character  sketch,  they  make  one  of  the 
best  contributions  to  the  light  literature  of  this  season. — Ob- 
server, N.  Y. 

Stories  told  with  much  skill,  tenderness,  and  kindliness,  so 
much  so  that  the  leader  is  drawn  powerfully  towards  the  poor 
subjects  of  them,  and  soon  learns  to  join  the  author  in  looking 
behind  their  peculiarities  and  recognizing  special  spiritual  gifts 
in  them. — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

These  stories  arc  of  such  originality,  abounding  in  deep  pa- 
thos and  tenderness,  that  one  finds  himself  in  perfect  accord 
with  the  writer  as  he  reads  of  the  hallucinations  of  these  he- 
roes.—  Watcliman,  Boston. 

Dreamers  of  a  singular  kind,  they  affect  us  like  the  inhabit- 
ants of  allegories — a  walk  of  literary  art  in  which  we  have  had 
no  master  since  the  pen  dropped  from  the  faint  and  feeble  fin- 
gers of  Hawthorne,  and  which  seems  native  to  Mrs.  Slosson. — 
N.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 

The  sweetness,  the  spiciness,  the  aromatic  taste  of  the  forest 
has  crept  into  these  tales. — Fhiladelphia  Ledger. 


PuBLisuED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

-The  above  work  will  he  sent  hy  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part 
of  the  United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


A   KING   OF  TYEE. 

A  Tale  of  the  Times  of  Ezra  and  Nehemiab. 
By  James  M.  Ludlow,  D.  D.  1 6rao,  Cloth, 
Ornamental,  $1  00. 


Tlie  picture  of  the  life  and  manners  of  that  far-away  period 
is  carefully  and  artistically  drawn,  the  plot  is  full  of  interest, 
and  the  whole  treatment  of  the  subject  is  strikingly  original, 
and  there  is  a  dramatic  intensity  in  the  story  which  will  at  once 
remind  the  reader  of  "  Ben-Hur." — Boston  Traveller. 

It  is  altogether  a  fresh  and  enjoyable  tale,  strong  in  its  sit- 
uations and  stirring  in  its  actions. —  Cincinnati  Commercial- 
Gazette. 

Another  distinct  success  in  the  field  of  historical  fiction.  .  .  . 
Must  be  unhesitatingly  set  down  as  a  highly  satisfactory  per- 
formance.— Boston  Beacon. 

In  "A  King  of  Tyre  "  we  live  and  move  amid  old  ideas,  old 
superstitions,  and  an  extinct  civilization.  But  this  vanished  order 
of  things  the  author  has  pierced  to  the  core,  and  laid  bare  the 
human  heart  tiiat  animates  it  all.  When  we  say  that  his  tale 
is  interesting,  that  it  is  satisfying,  that  it  is  dramatically  con- 
clusive, we  give  it  high  praise,  yet  we  give  it  deliberately,  and 
are  convinced  that  the  opinion  of  all  intelligent  readers  will 
confirm  the  verdict. —  Churchman,  N.  Y. 

Vivid  with  the  richness  of  Oriental  habits  and  customs,  and 
the  weird  accompaniments  of  pagan  worship,  this  tale  of  the 
times  after  the  return  of  the  Ilebrews  to  their  own  land,  will 
hold  the  attention  of  the  reader  with  unflagging  interest.  Its 
development  shows  marked  ability  and  skill.  There  is  an  his- 
torical basis  to  the  story  which  gives  it  additional  attraction. — 
Living  Church,  Chicago. 

Will  enhance  the  reputation  of  the  author,  and  can  be  wel- 
comed as  not  only  a  novel  of  absoi-bing  interest,  but  a  faithful 
study  ami  portraiture  of  an  eventful  historical  period. — Chris- 
tian Litelliijcnccr,  N.  Y. 

Published  by  HARPER  Sc  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

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BEN-HUE: 

A  Tale  of  the  Christ.  Bj^  Lew.  Wallace.  16mo, 
Cloth,  $1  50 ;  Half  LeatLer,  $2  00 ;  Three-quarter  Leath- 
er, $2  50 ;  Half  Calf,  $3  00  ;  Full  Leather,  $3  50  ;  Three- 
quarter  Crushed  Levaut,  $4  00. — Gari'Ield  Edition.  . 
2  volumes.  Illustrated  with  tweuty  full-page  iihoto- 
gravures.  Over  1,000  illustrations  as  luargiual  draw- 
ings by  William  Martin  Johnson.  Crown  8vo,  Silk 
and  Gold,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  To^is,  $7  00.  (In  a 
Gladdone  hox.) 

Anything  so  startling,  new,  and  distinctive  as  the  leading  feature  of 
this  romance  does  not  often  appear  in  works  of  fiction.  .  .  .  Some  of 
Mr.  Wallace's  writing  is  remarkable  for  its  pathetic  eloquence.  The 
scenes  described  in  the  New  Testament  are  rewritten  with  the  power 
and  skill  of  an  accomplished  master  of  style. — iV".  Y.  Times. 

Its  real  basis  is  a  description  of  the  life  of  the  Jews  and  Romans  at 
the  beginning  of  the  Christian  era,  and  this  is  both  forcible  and  brill- 
iant. .  .  .We  are  carried  through  a  surprising  variety  of  scenes;  we 
witness  a  sea-fight,  a  chariot-race,  the  internal  economy  of  a  Roman 
galley,  domestic  interiors  at  Antioch,  at  Jerusalem,  and  among  the 
tribes  of  the  desert;  palaces,  prisons,  the  haunts  of  dissipated  Roman 
youth,  the  houses  of  pious  families  of  Israel.  There  is  plenty  of  ex- 
citing incident;  everything  is  animated,  vivid,  and  glowing. — N.  Y. 
Tribune. 

It  is  full  of  poetic  beauty,  as  though  born  of  an  Eastern  sage,  and 
there  is  sufficient  of  Oriental  customs,  geography,  nomenclature,  etc., 
to  greatly  strengthen  the  semblance. — Boston  Commomccallh. 

"Ben-IIur"  is  interesting,  and  its  characterization  is  fine  and  strong. 
Meanwhile  it  evinces  careful  study  of  the  period  in  which  the  scene  is 
laid,  and  will  help  those  who  read  it  with  reasonable  attention  to  real- 
ize the  nature  and  conditions  of  Hebrew  life  in  Jerusalem  and  Ro- 
man life  at  Antioch  at  the  time  of  our  Saviour's  advent — Examiner, 
N.  Y. 

The  book  is  one  of  unqnestionable  power,  and  will  be  read  with  un- 
wonted interest  by  many  readers  wlio  are  weary  of  the  conventional 
novel  and  romnnco.— Boston  Journal. 


Published  by  HARPER  «fc  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

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RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
681 


